


His Father's Son

by Ygrain



Series: Ned Cousland [12]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 12:39:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 104,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3447545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ygrain/pseuds/Ygrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You killed my father!" - "Your father killed my family!" <br/>Such an obstacle is hard to overcome, yet somehow along the long way, Nathaniel Howe and Ned Cousland still manage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Legacies

The weight of the manacles on his wrists has almost become accustomable; the rattling of the chains at his every move is as unnerving as ever, and so he spends most of the time sitting still, except for getting up and stretching his muscles at regular intervals. Every time he does so, the guard appears to check on him.

_The fearsome prisoner,_ _I am_ _. If only_ _I_ _could break those bonds as the guards seem to imagine._

Nathaniel Howe leans his head against the wall. What an irony, to end up chained to the wall of the place that should have been his. When, how, did it all go so wrong? Not so long ago, he was savouring the rich wines of the Marches, in the shaded patio of the Montessori estate. Then, the letter, and everything went downhill since then. From a mighty nobleman's son to an outcast, from a free man to prisoner.

_And almost to darkspawn lunch, if they ever do such a thing._

It is a poor consolation that he is not the only one for whom things didn't work - though it seems that for some people, they always do _._

_"The Warden Commander has arrived and saved_ _us_ _all",_ he overheard the guards talking excitedly.

Everything seems to be centered around  _him_ _–_ even that  _when_  and  _how_.

_Ned Cousland._

They met only a few times when still boys and Nathaniel barely remembers him; the younger Cousland made no lasting impression – then.

Back than, he did not provoke any intense feelings, either.

As always, the mere thought of the man induces a rush in Nathaniel's heartbeat: a mix of anger, and helplessness. No matter how hard he tries, how much he rakes his brain, he has no idea what he will say or do when he finally sees  _him_  face to face.

_Ned Cousland._ The man who murdered his father and condemned all his family.

The time passes unmeasured, and stretches to ages.  _Surely the mighty Commander will deign to take a look at the mysterious prisoner, or will he simply order him executed without further enquiring_?

The confrontation is inevitable, Nathaniel believes, and does his best to be prepared for it – yet when he hears the footsteps and the guard addressing the 'Commander', he feels a knot forming in his stomach.

_So, this is it._

As he hears the key turn in the lock, Nathaniel stands up to face whatever comes in.

The torchlight stings his eyes as the newcomer places the torch in the holder next to the door, but even so he can see that the fearsome Warden Commander is barely as tall as himself, of slender frame and a face the delicacy of which hardly matches the ideal of manly heroicness.

The thought that the ordinary man brought down all that ever mattered to him, drives Nathaniel's wrath to an unexpected surge. "Well, if this isn't the mighty Hero of Ferelden," he spits. "Aren't you supposed to be ten feet tall, with lightnings shooting out of your eyes?"

"Life's full of disappointment," Cousland retorts dryly. He narrows his eyes, inspecting Nathaniel's face. "Do I know you?"

"Oh, why should you? You only killed my father and dishonoured my family, made us despised outcasts in all of Ferelden! I am Nathaniel  _Howe_ , the son of Rendon Howe whom you murdered! Do you even remember him, or was he just one of the many on your way?"

Nathaniel realizes that he is short of breath, his heart frantically beating – and he can also see Cousland breathing hard. The answer comes in a voice strained with emotion:

"It would be hard not to remember the man who murdered my family. Pity I couldn't kill him more than just once for that!"

"Your family would have sold us to the Orlesians!"

Nathaniel is unsure what followed; he just knows that the next moment he is sprawled on the floor, his head and shoulder aching as he has hit the wall, his left cheek throbbing with pain. As he looks up, the fury in Cousland's eyes makes him cringe involuntarily.

"My family," Cousland says in a soft voice that scares Nathaniel more than the physical attack, "was exterminated because of a treason we never committed, and you whine about your family being punished for the crimes your father actually did? How dare you! Do you have an idea,  _Howe_ , what restraint it costs me not to gut you like I did your father?"

Nathaniel feels his wrath surge again. He rises. "Do, then," he grunts. "I'm shackled, suit yourself."

As they stare unflinchingly into each other's eye, Cousland folds his arms on his chest. "That would hardly be appropriate," he states in an edged tone. "Thieves are flogged and murderers are hanged. Which one is it to be,  _Howe_? What were you up to here? A little night backstabbing, your father's style?"

"Do your worst." With difficulty, Nathaniel manages to get his emotions under control; sick of the cat-and-mouse play and with little doubt that he is to be both hanged  _and_  humiliated. "I do not deny that originally, my plan was to kill you, to set a trap for you."

"Originally?" Cousland tilts his head and continues to scrutinize him with contempt. "Am I supposed to believe that you have given up your revenge?"

Nathaniel shrugs, feeling tiredness in the wake of the receding anger. "Killing you would have been pointless. It would neither bring my father back nor clean my name. All I wanted to do in the end was to retrieve some family things and leave." He twists his lips in the imitation of Cousland's grimace. "What does it matter now? Go on, decide my fate. Get rid of just one more Howe."

Cousland shakes his head. "I'm not done with you yet. If you intended to leave, where to? For what purpose?"

"Maybe to return later and try my luck with you once more?"

"Where to?" Cousland repeats calmly, ignoring the provocation.

Nathaniel snorts:  _what does it matter now, after all_? "Probably back to the Marches? I've spent the last couple of years there and thanks to you, there is certainly nothing left for me in Ferelden."

For some reason, the information does matter. After a prolonged silence, Cousland says slowly: "Were you in touch with your father during that time? Did he keep you informed of what had transpired here?"

With the feeling that he is walking a rope over an abyss, Nathaniel shrugs again: "Hardly. Given that I was sent off home to acquire better manners, we barely wrote to each other. I only learned of his death incidentally, two months ago. I was told that a certain Grey Warden sneaked in his residence in Denerim and murdered him."

The dark eyes are unfathomable in the dim torchlight. "So you know nothing."

The flat tone offers no clue, either, and Nathaniel frowns. "No, I do not know any details of what happened to your family, if that is what you imply. I'm sure that the war did bring about some horrible things, for everyone, and I'm sorry that my father was involved – even more so that you really made us all pay for that. How ironic that of all people, I'm even at  _your_  mercy now."

Again the pause, before Cousland says: "Very well, that's all I needed to know." He calls to the guard over his shoulder: "Bring the seneschal; I'm ready to proclaim my decree."

"Oh, are you? You certainly do not waste your time."

Cousland does not respond to his sarcasm and Nathaniel smiles wryly, in no doubt what the decree is to be. He breathes in even, controlled breaths, to face his fate without dishonouring his name in his last moments.

Soon enough, Varel turns up, accompanied by two more guards. "Commander?"

Cousland turns to him, his expression blank. "It has turned out that our prisoner is Nathaniel Howe, in his own person."

Varel gasps and his eyes dart to Nathaniel, who returns the glance with challenge. He is not surprised that the man never recognized him; and he certainly does not expect Varel to speak up for him – after all, the man was degraded and expelled by his father, so there is no reason why he should be loyal to the son.

Cousland lets the information sink in and then slightly raises his voice: "Hereby I proclaim my decree: for his offence against the Wardens' property, Nathaniel Howe will be pardoned and released but he is forbidden to come in the vicinity of the Vigil's Keep. If he is ever seen near the Keep again, he will be executed immediately."

Stunned, Nathaniel only stares at him, unable to grasp what he has just heard.  _Pardoned_?  _Released_?  _What game is the man playing now_?

Still expressionless, Cousland addresses him directly: "Go and decide your fate yourself, Howe. If I may advise you, I only suggest that you do so nowhere near Waking Seas or Dragon's Peak." Saying that, he turns on his heel and leaves. As he makes for the stairs, he adds: "And return him his belongings."

The four stupefied men stare behind Cousland for some time, then Varel shrugs and says: "You have heard the Commander's decree. Nathaniel Howe, you are to be released and returned your possessions. You are forbidden to ever return to this place under the penalty of death, to be carried out immediately."

He himself unlocks Nathaniel's manacles "For the sake of the boy I used to know, I hope you will do nothing to throw away this chance," he says softly but his eyes scrutinize Nathaniel with a cold and unforgiving stare. "You are lucky, I wouldn't have bet a single penny on your life."

Neither would Nathaniel himself and even as he puts on his armour, as fast as he can with trembling fingers, he is unsure what to expect; what he is being tricked into.  _Am I_ _to be shot 'on the run', so that Cousland does not have to bear responsibility for sentencing_ _me_ _to death?_

Yet, as he walks across the courtyard, accompanied by the guards who watch him with barely hidden hostility, it seems that the impossible has become the truth. He passes through the gate, unhindered, unharmed, and on shaking feet he sets out on the road, having no inkling where or why he should go.


	2. Point of No Return

The ale is stale and tasteless – the sort to be expected in a cheap and shabby dock tavern.

Cheap, but still expensive for Nathaniel's quickly diminishing means.

In his dark corner, hidden from sight, he runs his hand over the finely worked leather of his armour. Selling his property would earn him enough to buy a safe passage back to the Marches, to start a commoner's life. Selling his sword to someone's service would buy him even more: skilled mercenaries are always highly sought.

He should do either, and begone. It would by the only logical solution of his situation. He has no future in Ferelden, that's crystal clear.

Yet, there are also other things crystal clear.

If he leaves, he will hardly ever have a chance to find out Thomas and Delilah's fate. Most possibly, he will never have a chance to come back again. He will spend the rest of his life in the lands where the name Howe means nothing – in the good as well as in the bad.

For either reason, he is loath to go.

Nathaniel leaves his pint unfinished and goes out, to ramble aimlessly through the streets of Amaranthine, as he has ever since he returned from the disastrous mission to his former home.

The thought of the destruction and the aftermath of the attack, even the little he saw of it during his hasty departure, makes him shiver. He has seen enough refugees, heard their stories of the Blight – but  _seeing_  with his very eyes far exceeds his imagination.

And this is yet another thing why he prolongs his stay:  _there is another option_.

An option for him, for the  _Howes_ ; a slim chance, almost hopeless.

A dangerous one even to try.

The salty wind tugs at his cloak and Nathaniel pulls his hood lower. As he makes his way through the crowd, half-lost in thoughts, his attention is drawn by a loud excited whisper: "That's the  _Warden Commander_!"

Nathaniel's head snaps in the direction of the speaker before he has a chance to control his reaction. Luckily, no one notices: he is not the only one staring at the passers-by. In the last moment, Nathaniel hides from sight behind a stall; he cannot help but keep looking.

Ned Cousland, wearing the same armour with the griffin emblazoned on the breastplate, strides casually through the main street of the dock, accompanied by a blonde man bearing a mage's staff, a ferocious-looking dwarf and a chestnut mabari. Nathaniel is not sure why or how, but the man seems more impressive now. It may be the way he moves, the self-confident stride that makes very clear who is the master here – or it may be the respect that he has earned, completely regardless of Nathaniel's will or intention?

_The Warden Commander. The Hero of Ferelden._

Nathaniel takes a deep breath.  _If this is supposed to be a sign, a response to_ _my_ _thoughts, it speaks clearly._

As Cousland and his suite turn round the corner, Nathaniel warily follows.

They make their way through the docks, from the busy street full of the merchants and dock workers into an almost abandoned maze of shabby warehouses. Nathaniel wonders what business Ned Cousland might possibly have here, until he notices that he is not the only one to follow.

Those other shadows are not as skilled as himself, and their appearance leaves no doubt about their intentions. Inconspicuously, Nathaniel lets a knife slide into his palm: thugs do not favour witnesses.

The attack comes soon after, in an alley between two warehouses. A group of men blocks each entrance; crossbowmen rise from behind the top of the roof.

Almost two dozen of them.

Their leader, a bulky red-hair in well-worn leathers, puts his thumbs behind his belt. "Look what we have here. Isn't that the mighty Warden Commander? You have meddled in something that is too big even for yourself."

"Have I?" Nathaniel is already familiar with the provocative tone, and is not fooled by Cousland's leisured stance. "I certainly tend to dislike bastards who pray on the hapless."

The leader opens his mouth: the last thing he ever does. Cousland's sword flashes out of nowhere, slitting the man's throat. The splash of blood barely lands when Cousland swirls and kills another man, before the rest of the thugs even manage to react.

Nathaniel lets his breath out.  _Sending two dozen seems like a gross underestimation_.

The ambushers on the left roof are felled in a blast of blue energy; those on the right manage to fire their load before they freeze, covered with a layer of hoarfrost. On the ground, the man, the dwarf and the mabari spread havoc.

Some of the men on the roofs have survived the magic attack; two of them are still foolish enough to think they stand a chance as the mage's attention is aimed at the meelee.

Nathaniel's bow is drawn even before he realizes he has grabbed it. The two thugs never know what hit them; both are dead even before they roll over the edge of the roof.

And then it's over.

Cousland bends to clean his blade on a thug's clothes; as he straightens, he notices the two arrowed bodies.

Nathaniel's palms grow wet. Placing the bow back over his shoulder, he steps out of his hiding, holding his bare hands for everyone to see.

The mage grits a curse through his teeth; his face is unfamiliar but he is evidently aware of Nathaniel's identity. So is the dwarf, who glares at him from under the blood-soaked hair. "Curse me if it ain't the sodding Howe bastard! You have quite some stones to turn up over here."

Ned Cousland says nothing but his tense posture speaks volumes.

"I mean no harm," Nathaniel says, expecting a fire blast every second. "Let me… I've come to speak with you."

The hostility pertains. "I thought I made it clear that your presence was unwelcome when I let you go."

"A mistake to be easily rectified," the mage mutters.

Ned Cousland silences him with a mere gesture, his eyes never leaving Nathaniel's face. "Speak then. What is it you want so urgently that you risk your hide for it?"

"I want to become a Grey Warden."

The mage laughs sharply and the dwarf issues a deep gurgle. "Bloody must clear me ears, I'm 'earing things."

Nathaniel feels his cheeks flushing; it does sound completely ridiculous.

Cousland, however, is not amused. "Why should you?"

"I am the last of my name. If I don't do anything to clean it, no-one will. Becoming a Warden, serving Ferelden, seems a good way."

"And you wish to pledge your service to  _me_?"

 _Even more ridiculous, isn't it_. Nathaniel does not flinch from the piercing stare. "You spared me though you didn't have to. I… I have had the time to learn things about you, and to think. I cannot forgive what you did but I can… live with it. I can… respect you."

Waiting for the answer seems harder than back then in the prison. Ned Cousland keeps looking at him very long; the mage and the dwarf are now silent, their menacing miens revealing their opinions of the request.

"Walk with me," Ned Cousland finally says, indicating the farther end of the alley and silencing his companions' objections with a gesture again. Nathaniel uneasily obeys; unbidden and unhindered, the mabari follows.

When they are out of earshot, Ned Cousland turns to him. "Nathaniel," for the first time and surprisingly, he addresses him in this way, "becoming a Grey Warden is an irreversible choice." A pause. "It also poises more risks than you are aware of. It would be wiser to seek another way to redeem your name."

Nathaniel cannot help but quirk bitterly. "Oh, I'm sure King Alistair would offer plenty of chances to a Howe."

The answer renders him breathless. "He will, if I ask him to."

"Why would you do that?" he finally stutters.

Ned Cousland briefly looks away. "I shouldn't have struck you," he says, looking back, straight in Nathaniel's eye, "it was base of me. I never expected your presence; I was exhausted and did not handle it well. I certainly owe you for that. And as your intentions seem sincere, I must not let my grudge cloud my judgement again."

"But you would dissuade me from an honourable way."

"Nathaniel. Even if you manage to redeem your name in the Grey Wardens' ranks, there will probably be no one to pass that name on. It is even more likely that you will die without accomplishing anything, and much sooner than you expect. I am not allowed to tell you now the full truth what it takes to be a Grey Warden, and when you have learned, it will be too late to back out."

 _It already is_. "I will take the risk. I have nothing to lose."

Ned Cousland sighs. "Very well, then. I am certainly not thrilled by the prospect of your presence but as the Wardens would benefit from your skills, my personal preferences do not matter. We're leaving for the Keep tomorrow morning, so if you want to stay in your word, be at the gate by daylight. You can change your mind any time on the way but once you enter the Keep, I will hold you to your choice."

Nathaniel nods. "That's fair with me."

After an uneasy pause, the two men slightly bow to each other. As Ned Cousland turns to leave, his mabari briefly pokes with his nose at Nathaniel's hand.

Nathaniel decides to consider it a welcome – probably the only one he is ever to receive.


	3. Interludes and Examinations

The sun shines on the bed at a familiar angle –  _his_  bed, in  _his_  room.

As if nothing ever changed.

Nathaniel runs his hands over his face. He doesn't feel any different, either.

 _Strange_. I _sought to serve the man_ _I_ _hate, had to drink darkspawn blood to achieve that, and yet_ _I_ _feel no different at all._  Pushing aside the sheets, he gets up and walks over to the small table of dark wood. The back corner is chipped – the memory of the beating he and Thomas received for knocking the table and upturning the washbasin as they fought is still vivid.

Nathaniel shakes his head. After all that has transpired, he is lodged in his old room which looks quite like it did before.

_Well, much better lodging that the previous one._

He washes and shaves, then leans closer to the tarnished looking glass to inspect his features:  _certainly_ some _proof of the change must be visible_?

But the reflection offers only the familiar hard set of his face, one he got used to over the years.

He certainly did not take after the mother's delicate beauty the way Thomas and Delilah did; he doesn't have much of Rendon, either, though the long face and nose do bring some resemblance. His eyes are the colour of his father's but not the shape; his hair is his mother's jet black, and that's all.

The lack of family features in his face used to worry him, at one point.

Nathaniel smirks. How peculiar that the former disadvantage has turned out advantageous – bearing his father's name and his face would do him little good these days.

His armour and weapons are where he vaguely recalls putting them before he collapsed on his bed, exhausted by the strain of the Joining: it seems that Cousland's orders of no restrictions to him are valid.

_Time to_ _test the limits, then._

Varel's eyes are drawn invariably to the blade at Nathaniel's side but he keeps his expression perfectly polite as he answers his questions. No, the Commander specified no duties for Nathaniel so far, recruits are usually given some time to recover after the Joining. However, he did mention – and here Nathaniel can tell that the order does not sit well with Varel – that he is to be granted free access to the armory where he can take any equipment he deems fit.

Nathaniel feels his brows rise and Varel clears his throat. "Actually, the Commander said that you  _are_  to take any equipment that is better than your current." Seeing Nathaniel's incredulity, he adds: "The Wardens think that only the best is good enough for them, and what we have here are pieces that you do not see on the regular basis. – You can take a look for yourself, after all."

As he turns the key in the lock, he suddenly turns to Nathaniel with a wink: "And if you still have that smug face when you're done here, I'll eat my shoes."

Nathaniel briefly wonders what  _he_  has to eat, since drinking is already done.

His doubts, as well as the slowly waking stomach, are immediately forgotten as he sets his eyes on the  _bow_.

Oh, there are certainly some more pieces worth his attention – it seems that practically  _everything_  is better that the attire that had cost his father quite some money in its time – but Maker, the  _bow_ …

He realizes that Varel is watching him with a broad smile, which vanishes as the man remarks: "Now you look exactly the way I remember when you got that new bow for your birthday."

 _And had it taken away on the very same day because_ _I_ _displeased father somehow. Happy birthday, Nathaniel._ He shrugs. "You were right, I've never seen a bow like this before. Your shoes are safe for today. Is there anything else to be eaten?"

His mood lightened by the bow and the breakfast, Nathaniel decides not to postpone the inevitable and report with … the Commander. As instructed, he walks past the sparring circle, heading to the more secluded area of a side courtyard where he used to practice with the bow.

He strides as casually as he can, aware of the looks he earns from nearly everyone he passes by. No-one stops him or questions his presence, though, and so he reaches his destination unhindered.

Ned Cousland's idea of training seems rather unorthodox: without a partner, not to mention the shield and armour, he swirls around in a swift dance, the flashing blade blurred by the speed. Every now and then, he slows down and performs the movement slowly, as if testing the weight and balance of a weapon he is unused to.

Nathaniel holds his breath. He is familiar with the style: it can be seen in the Marches, now and then, brought by the mercenaries from far-off lands; but here, in Ferelden?

He keeps watching, intrigued, while a calculating part of his mind observes for potential weak spots.

Cousland finishes his training with a lunge against the invisible opponent's chest, then he straightens and lowers his sword.

And as he turns, he glimpses Nathaniel, and shifts back into the battle stance within a blink of an eye.

Nathaniel freezes, unsure how to respond, but almost immediately, Ned Cousland relaxes again and sheathes his sword. "Sorry. Better not to approach me like this before I get used to your presence," he states matter-of-factly. "You come in handy, I would have a word with you." He glances over Nathaniel and nods approvingly. "I see you have visited the armory. Good."

"It seems that your opinion is rather solitary," Nathaniel remarks, remembering all those eyes practically drilling holes into his back.

Ned Cousland half-shrugs. "Insisting that you walk around unarmed would be pointless. Should you be so stupid as to try anything, you are a dead man."

Remaining quiet after such arrogance is past Nathaniel's self-control. "So you believe I wouldn't stand a chance against you?"

He receives a hard look and the moment of silence lies heavy, but in the end Cousland speaks rather civilly: "What I had on mind was that you wouldn't rejoice over your revenge for long. Even if you made it out of the Keep alive, there is no way you could ever escape Alistair."

Nathaniel feels like gritting his teeth – whether at his own idiocy or at the casual reminder of Cousland's standing with the mighty of this world, he cannot really tell. However, he won't be embarrassed any further. "I apologize then for jumping at a wrong conclusion."

He sounds much stiffer than he would have liked but Ned Cousland graciously overlooks that. "No offence taken. Conversations are bound to be difficult – and inevitable. The contact can be minimized but not avoided."

Unable to make up a reasonable response, Nathaniel only nods.

After an awkward pause, Cousland continues. "As the only senior Warden here, it is my duty to instruct you on the Wardens' ways, as well as inform you in fullness about the effects of the Joining. It may be a rather prolonged talk, so take your time and seek me during the day whenever you feel ready."

The idea of talking to Cousland twice during the day is unappealing. "Now is as good a time as any."

Cousland obviously shares the attitude. "Very well, then. Follow me, the topic requires privacy."

Unsurprisingly, the new Commander did not take over Rendon's rooms; instead, he occupies the much smaller chambers in the southern tower which used to be Delilah's. To Nathaniel's relief, the room has been refurnished; the new surroundings make him feel Cousland's intrusion less acutely.

"Take a seat," Cousland bids him, himself seated behind the desk.

Nathaniel's first impulse is to refuse and remain standing; however, he quickly reconsiders. He is here of his own volition, and a defiant pose is of little use.

Besides, he doesn't want to lose his face again by being the one unable to hold his temper.

Concentrated, he listens to Cousland's account of what it takes to be a Grey Warden; rather than looking at him, observing a dark spot on the polished wood.

_So. If the darkspawn don't kill_ _me_ _, the taint eventually will;_ _I_ _will never sire an heir, and this all by_ _my_ _own choice._

_The biggest joke ever: the last Howe has condemned himself._

_Cousland must have laughed his socks off in private._

_Though, the man did take the trouble to warn_ _me_ _beforehands._

As Nathaniel finally finds it in himself to raise his head and meet Cousland's eyes, there is no trace of laughter or malicious satisfaction as he awaits Nathaniel's reaction.

And so Nathaniel says, "I see," and looks for something else to say. "This is what you were hinting at when you warned me, is it?" Only then it strikes him. "Why did you warn me at all if it's supposed to be a secret?"

Cousland tilts his head. "What would you have thought if I had let you take the Joining without any clue?"

 _That you acted out of malevolence_. Nathaniel turns his head away and Cousland nods, quirking. "You'd be furious, which would only further complicate the matter. I was." He suddenly presses his lips, as if the bitter tone somehow escaped against his will, and finishes blankly: "The courtesy is normally not given."

Neither man speaks for some time, occupied by his own thoughts.

"Is that all I need to know?" Nathaniel finally blurts.

"There are a couple more things about the taint and the darkspawn, such as the way they procreate, but I believe the knowledge is redundant at the moment. As for the Deep Roads and what you may encounter there, talk to Oghren, he is the most experienced by far."

 _And you are as fed up with me as I am with you._ "Is this not redundant knowledge?" He almost bites his lip: the urge at pointed statements is getting irresistible.

Cousland actually smirks this time. "This is knowledge to be used tomorrow. Right after our return, I had the clearing works in the vaults renewed and I expect it to be finished tomorrow. Once the ceilings are secured from another cave-in, we will have to go down there and explore. There must be an entrance to the Deep Roads somewhere. You do not happen to be familiar with it, by the way?"

"Never heard of any." The business-like tone makes the conversation somewhat less awkward.

"Pity. Neither does any of the servants – well, what can be done." Cousland rises. "Do talk to Oghren, and I needn't tell you to practice with your new bow, do I. Any questions?"

"No… Commander." Nathaniel can tell a dismissal when he sees one. The multitude of questions pressing on his tongue can be discussed with Varel, or just about anyone else, for that matter.

Anyone else but Cousland himself.


	4. A Day In the Strife

The vaults look uninviting and unfamiliar; still would even if it weren't for the supporting beams and loose rubble at places, and spots scorched with fire.

_Cleansing off the taint, according to what Cousland has said._

As a child, Nathaniel craved for access to the place, haunted by monsters from the old servants' tales; now that he is in, there is nothing he desires more than getting out again.

 _Monsters did come out of here, after all._  Monsters came, and the woman who had been the safe harbour of his childhood died at their hands.

" _Here, children, have some cookies with the milk_." Despite the musty air, he can still almost smell the cinnamon and the freshly baked bread. " _Now, which story shall I tell my little ones?"_

When he learned from Varel that Adria was dead, he felt as if he lost Thomas and Delilah a second time.

_If anone kept track of their fate_ _after they were evicted from_ _our_ _home, she would have._

Pushing aside the thought that it wouldn't have happened had the Wardens not come here, Nathaniel keeps walking.

They quickly pass through the upper cellars, then stop at a sturdy new door, securely barred and heavily guarded.

At Cousland's command, the guards open the door for them; the corridor behind looks much like the previous. The Commander ventures ahead with his mabari, then waves at them to follow.

The door barred shut behind them cuts off the torchlight, leaving them only with the blue luminescence of the dwarven lamps. Nathaniel touches his, fastened at his hip as Oghren instructed him. The light is steadier than that of a lamp or torch, but their faces look now ghastly pale.

"Alright," the Commander says, and his voice sounds as if hushed by the darkness. "I don't expect to encounter anything in that part we cleared last time, but be alert, just in case. I and Wolf go first, then Oghren. You, Nathaniel, keep the rearguard."

"What? I am to feel safer with  _him_  behind my back?" the mage squeals.

Oghren chuckles. "Finally got it why skirts ain't so bright to wear?"

Anders puffs. "It's not the existing orifice I'm anxious about but the new one that might appear in my back. Knives are not on the list of fashionable accessories this year."

"I generally prefer arrows," Nathaniel remarks.  _And knocking out someone's teeth is also high on the list of preferences._

"Oh,  _now_  I can rest assured."

"Don't throw yourself in hurlocks' arms, Anders, and your back will certainly remain the way you prefer it. – Now, if you are done talking, we have some work to do." Ned Cousland adjusts the shield on his shoulder. "If we encounter a larger group, I go for the boss, you deal with the rest. Should there be archers, it's your task, Anders. Nathaniel, do bear on mind in fight not to position yourself between Anders and his targets. Both of you watch out for Oghren, whenever he goes berserk, he chops down all that gets in his way."

"Choppin' and slicin', that's me." Oghren grins, as if the Commander's comment was a compliment.

They continue at a slower pace, and Nathaniel feels his skin prickle. The idea that he spent most of his life with all those tunnels under his feet is disquieting; as if the ground he had been walking suddenly became a quagmire.

They enter a large vault, with floor and walls heavily scorched; the stench of burn mixes with stale damp odour, and something else Nathaniel cannot quite place.

"What, no ghoul ladies this time?" Anders remarks, kicking at a pile of rubble.

Exacerbated by the jovial remark, Nathaniel sharply turns to him. "You are talking of Adria?"

Anders raises his brows. "Adria? Well, yes, I believe that was the name. Why? Was she any special for you?"

"Oh, not really, she was only like a mother to me." Nathaniel glares at the blonde mage, who remains unimpressed.

"Really? And here I thought assassins have no such feelings since they crawl from under the rock."

"Quit it, Anders!" The snapped command makes it. "I'm sorry," Cousland then turns to Nathaniel; surprisingly, the concern in his voice seems genuine. "With the damage done to the Keep, we only started clearing the cellars after a couple of days, and found out that some people took refuge down here even later. When we got to her, she was already past saving." He sighs. "Though tainted as she was, we probably wouldn't have been able to save her even had we reached her earlier."

Nathaniel closes his eyes for a moment.  _Caught down here, helpless, waiting for a rescue that never came… Oh, Adria._   _No wonder Varel was so elusive_. "She did not deserve such an end," he says in a muffled voice.

"No-one does." Cousland's tone is flat again. "Which is why we are here, to make sure this does not happen again."

And so they go on.

The place gets even more creepy as they enter a part where the stonework looks different: ornamented in an unusual fashion, and very, very old.

 _How old, exactly?_ There were all kinds of wild stories Nathaniel heard during the long winter evenings, of the ancient Avvar; could they even be true?

As they pass through a thoroughly propped corridor, the Commander stops before a side alcove, ending with a massive stone door. "Nathaniel. You mentioned you were proficient with lockpicks. Do you possess the skill to open this door?"

Reluctantly, Nathaniel slides past Cousland and inspects the intricate locking mechanism, surprisingly little corroded, given its age. "I may possess the skill but I lack the tools," he proclaims finally.

"Do you think it would be possible to obtain those tools here in the Keep? With Wade, probably?"

"Hardly. In Amaranthine, maybe, or even Denerim. The mechanism apparently requires some specific manipulation."

Cousland presses his lips. "It has to be postponed then but I certainly do not like leaving unchecked whatever it is that lies behind that door." He looks up, at the supporting beams. "Unfortunately, force is not an option here. Let's move on."

One more secured door, and the corridors give way to crude tunnels and a natural cavern. Their progress slows down again on the uneven floor, and then comes to a halt as Ned Cousland suddenly stops, drawing his sword with a hiss of steel. "Darkspawn. There," he points with his sword, "and there, and…"

… and soon, they are everywhere. For the first time, Nathaniel feels thankful for the dim light; those… things… look monstrous enough even as he cannot distinguish their features properly.

_Here you go, for Adria._

Resorting to the calmness gained in the years of practice, Nathaniel releases the arrows with his usual precision; when a group of hurlocks approaches too close before he can dispose of them, he draws his blades.

The long and the short blade of the set he acquired in the Vigil's armoury glow with silver-blue light every time they connect with the tainted flesh.

A deafening growl: something enormous emerges from the darkness, shaking the floor of the cavern with the stomping of its feet and pounding fists.

 _Maker, is that an… ogre? How does one kill_ that _?_

With skill, it turns out: Ned Cousland ducks from the crushing fists, and as the monstrosity bends over him, he plunges his blade in its eye socket with precision revealing long practice. He expertly gets out of the way as the massive hulk collapses on the ground, and the giant hands clench helplessly only at the thin air.

When there are no living darkspawn left, Nathaniel carefully cleans the blades of the gore, wishing he could clean himself accordingly.  _It cannot harm me now_ , he reminds himself sternly.  _I'm a Grey Warden, the taint cannot harm me any more._

The sickening feeling does not recede, though.

The Commander stands with his sword still ready, turning his head as if scenting. Finally, he also sheathes his blade, obscuring the runes glowing alongside. "No more darkspawn around," he states, glancing at each of them. "Anyone hurt?"

Oghren snorts with contempt. "After disposing a sodding couple 'spawn? You're kidding." He prods the nearest hurlock with his foot and turns to Nathaniel: "You're quite good with them whittles."

"Really?" Anders makes quite a show, trying to inspect his back and making tut-tut over the nonexistent hilt.

"No need to worry, Anders," Nathaniel retorts casually. "If I planted a knife between your ribs, you would have noticed. – Though, on a second thought, maybe you even wouldn't."

Saying that, he would have sworn that the sound from Cousland's direction sounded suspiciously much like a chuckle but he cannot be sure since Oghren roars with laughter and makes a half-intelligible remark about  _other_  things Anders would not notice.

While the mage and the dwarf indulge in banter, a search of the area reveals but one exit from the cavern. As they cautiously come down the rather steep decline, Nathaniel holds his breath. From what he can discern, they have entered another corridor: wide with a high ceiling, running straight in finely chiselled walls.

The Deep Roads.

"So wide? 'Must be somethin' big close in here," Oghren mutters.

There is. They walk barely a hundred steps when the dwarf rushes to examine some carvings on the wall, and his breath hitches in his throat. "A whole bloody  _city_?"

The road on is half-blocked by a huge construction. Disbelievingly, Nathaniel stares at the massive metallic pillars and panels: the craft behind this is past his imagination.

Oghren mutters some curses under his breath, then slams his fist against the metal with a clank. "Had the poor sods finished this earlier… This is a part of Kal'Hirol's outer defences," he explains. "They must have been overwhelmed shortly before they could seal this. Had they managed, Orzammar may not have stood alone." His voice trails off in a series of curses.

Ned Cousland wistfully inspects the structure. "Could this still work, I wonder? It would solve our trouble, at least partially."

Oghren ponders for a while, then shrugs. "Who's to tell? But I cannot imagine why not. Dwarven work is made to  _last_." He chuckles. "Dog piss sure won't do any harm but I wouldn't let him do that in front of Voldric if I were you, Commander, the guy's touchy about all that glorious past thing and stuff."

"I won't," Ned Cousland promises solemnly, patting the dog who does not look embarrassed at all.

Searching the corridor in the other direction brings them to a dead end of a massive cave-in; both the floor and the walls are cracked in multiple spots. As they climb over the rocks to make sure the road is thoroughly blocked, Anders suddenly alerts them: "Hey, what's that?"

'That' is a stream of faint light issuing from a narrow passage in the wall, opened by the movement of the rock, wide enough for them to make their way through into a crude chamber. There, on a metallic pedestal, rests a strange device, emitting a steady pale aura.

"Don't look at me, it ain't dwarven," Oghren grunts but no-one is actually looking at him, anyway, since Ned Cousland's mabari, growling and all bristled, slowly backs towards the passage. His owner is uneasily looking around the chamber.

"I don't like this, it reminds me too much of – don't touch it, Anders!" he yells, but it is too late.

A loud crack and a flash of blinding light, the echo of which remains burnt in the retina.

Nathaniel groans with pain reverberating through every nerve as he crushes against the wall and slides down along it. As his eyesight recovers, he can see that others have fared no better – and he can also see a dark form materializing above the device.

Before he can get back on his feet, a new flare of energy pierces him, setting his muscles in a cramp.

 _'You may die sooner than you expect,'_  he remembers Cousland's words, and now it seems that they all will.

A new explosion of light, though much softer this time – and it issues from  _Cousland_ , half-risen from the floor. The dark form staggers and wavers uncertainly over the device; in the meantime, Ned Cousland is up and charging, his blade glowing steadily and energy emanating from him with every blow.

A bolt from somewhere on the right: Anders does not waste the time getting up first, either.

Trembling under the concentrated attack, the dark figure suddenly whirls and flies into the opening in the rock.

Anders runs his hands over his face. "Phew. I'd never have thought I'd be happy to see a holy smite. You failed to tell me you were a  _templar_ ," he addresses Cousland reproachingly.

"And you failed to use your brain, Anders," Cousland retorts. He gestures towards the opening. "What are you waiting for, ser mage? Let's go hunt the revenant you have so graciously released."

Pushing through the opening is no more comfortable than before but Anders does not seem to be put down. "I somehow missed the part how the Grey Wardens are supposed to fight revenants when I joined," he groans as he gets temporarily caught in the narrow of the rock before he makes it into the open space.

_So did I. Chattering mages were not mentioned, either._

"You should have been there during the Blight, then," Nathaniel hears the Commander remark as he finally reaches the corridor. "You'd be amazed at the variety of creatures the Wardens are supposed to fight."

"Oh. I see." A pause, as the dog suddenly issues a deep guttural growl, and then Anders asks casually: "Fighting a darskpawn you've already killed once is also on the list?"

The ogre's eyesocket is still dripping with the dark ichor as it approaches them, moving stiffly like a puppet on the strings.

"Oh Maker, not again," Ned Cousland mutters. "I  _so much_  hate decapitating them. Oghren, Nathaniel, engage him so that I could have a strike," he orders.

Carrying out the command is not as difficult as Nathaniel feared; the animated thing is much slower than while still alive. Soon enough, Cousland's sword cleaves the monstrous head from the neck; almost immediately, dark vapours issue from the corpse, forming the familiar human-like shape.

Nathaniel cringes in the expectation of another energy blast but Cousland is faster again: smitten once more, the revenant flees down the corridor with unbelievable speed.

Cursing under their breaths, they follow as fast as they can.

When they reach the cavern full of the dead darkspawn, Nathaniel's fears remain unconfirmed: no body rises to attack them and there is no trace of the malevolent spirit, either. Unsure what that means, they hastily make their way back, until they reach the unstable corridor and the mysterious door.

The dog, which previously passed by the door quietly on their way down, all of a sudden bares its teeth and issues a warning growl.

Ned Cousland slowly places his hand on the door. "Correct me if I am mistaken, Anders," he says conversationally, "but revenants cannot pass through solid rock without an opening, can they?"

Anders' grin matches the Commanders. "I believe not." Then he frowns. "However, I can hold it in there only temporarily."

"Never mind. I am sure ambassador Cera will be able to come up with more permanent measures until we find a… final solution."

The glyph the mage draws on the door glows blue and the dog finally calms down. Ned Cousland grins. "And until she does so, enjoy your new post down here, Anders. – Don't worry, we're staying with you, in case your own stupidity makes it out to bite you in the ass."

With the traces of laughter still in his eyes, he turns to Nathaniel. "Go and inform ambassador Cera about our little... misadventure. And Nathaniel..." he pauses a little, "…you've done well."

Downcasting his eyes, Nathaniel slightly bows in response, both irritated and unwittingly pleased by the praise at the same time.

As he hurries back through the tunnels, he keeps wondering how much simpler the life would be if he could just hate the man, thoroughly and uncomplicatedly.


	5. Divided Loyalties

The main hall of the Vigil's Keep is filled with colours: purple and white, black on crimson, yellow gold on emerald green. All the colours of heraldry, in combinations he was carefully taught since childhood.

His father's vassals and retainers.

All have gathered to swear their oath of fealty to the new Arl.

Most of his life, Nathaniel believed that it would be him in whose hands the oath will be pledged.

" _The occasion may be perceived as humiliating for you – if not by yourself, then by others. I do not insist on your presence."_

Dressed in a plain grey tabard, with the emblem of the rampant griffon on his chest, Nathaniel stands next to the dais with the Arl's chair, carefully maintaining his posture relaxed and his face unmoved. The Howe banners, the great shield of Tobias Howe, who served to King Calenhad, are all gone, replaced by the Wardens' symbols. The portraits of his ancestors remained, though, for some reason: the mixture of the old and new give the room a dream-like atmosphere, as if he was to wake soon, to find things back as they were, as they should be.

As if father was just about to enter through the main door and hold a court hearing like he had seen him countless times.

" _I am yours to command."_

_The Commander rolls his eyes. "I command you to make up your own mind."_

And Nathaniel can but curse his own stupidity.

Every now and then, he feels Anders' eyes on him; the mage stands on the opposite side of the dais, his outfit not revealing his profession for once, since he is wearing the same Grey Warden tabard. For once, he even keeps his mouth shut.

There are more curious eyes watching him; Nathaniel has no doubts that neither his identity nor his endeavour remained concealed from the ever-plotting nobles. If but a single person knew or recognized him, all of them were bound to know even before the ceremony started proper.

A part of him finds the curiosity amusing, in an ironic way.

The main door opens once again. Varel enters, bearing the ceremonial staff. "Warden-Commander Ned Cousland, the Arl of Amaranthine!" he announces.

The Commander walks down the lane, to the dais. He is also wearing grey with the griffin symbol, but his doublet is of fine velvet, embroidered with silver; cuts in his sleeves showing the black tunic underneath. He bears himself proudly, the Arl by every inch; it never ceases to amaze Nathaniel what impression the man can create when he chooses to.

And he cannot help but think of his father, whom he saw walk like this countless times; proud of the name Howe and what it meant in Ferelden.

" _Behave yourself, Nathaniel! Straighten up, do not cow! Maker, how do you ever intend to replace me if you bear yourself like this!"_

How very ironic that it was not Nathaniel's conduct but the father's that brought about their downfall in the end.

Whatever that conduct was.

The history may have been written by victors, but at least they will not see Nathaniel Howe cow from anything.

And so he stands there, exposed to the prying eyes, and watches his father's banns and knights kneel and pledge their fealty into the hands of Ned Cousland, and with the every single oath he accepts, the man kills his father over and over.

The colours in the hall blur before his eyes. Nathaniel sees none of the ceremony anymore, focused on holding back tears. Breathe in, breathe out…

_Quit whining, Nathaniel Howe. You had a chance to back out, you didn't. Bear the consequences._

Stubbornness and pride got him here, stubbornness and pride have to get him through.

Breathe in, breathe out.

And then it's finally over.

The easier part, that is. Nathaniel takes one more controlled breath, in expectation of things to come.

" _However, if you do choose to be_ _present, I expect you to report to me afterwards."_

" _What about?"_

" _Everything. Your position here is bound to draw attention."_

As the nobles disperse and the Commander merges in the crowd, the first contact is a matter of seconds.  _Is that truly you, Nathaniel, how surprising, almost did not recognize you, how very unfortunate, your father's demise, uhm…_

To Nathaniel's surprise, the concern is sometimes even genuine; unsurprisingly, the curiosity is always genuine, and so is the barely concealed derision in some eyes.

 _Mighty Rendon Howe's son_ _serves his father's murderer, what a lovely irony_. His pulse speeds up but he is not going to provide them the satisfaction. Inconspicuously, he sinks his nails into his palms while he calmly converses and one face follows another.  _Most pleased to see you, too, dear Lord, and how is your Lady wife? I hope to have the pleasure soon, yes, I am staying indefinitely; yes an unexpected twist, I am sure; no, not at all; oh, you're so kind to have asked, thanks you for your condolences; no, probably not, that hardly matters now; I am not sure I see your point; concerning my purpose here –_

"Nathaniel has already proved his worth." The Commander appears out of nowhere, and cuts short Lady Packton's overly inquisitive investigation. "The Wardens are honoured by his presence in their ranks."

"That is… most gracious of you, my Lord. Given the circumstances…"

"Blame and worth should be perceived where they lie." The minute change in Cousland's tone causes Packton's square face turn an ugly red. With great effort, she composes a barely adequate reply and quickly takes her leave. With a wry  _'I've told you'_  look, Cousland disappears in the crowd again.

Awkward as it may feel, being saved by Cousland, the minutes to come make Nathaniel feel in need of aid again, come it from where it may.

"Nathaniel? It  _is_  you, is it not?"

"Yes, my Lady."  _What a surprise, after half the hall have come to ask the same_.

Bann Esmerelle has put on some weight and the wrinkles in the corners of her cat-like eyes are more prominent, yet she still moves with equal feline grace. "My dear boy… accept my sincerest condolences." Her voice is low, as if she was telling a dirty secret.

"Thank you, my Lady." The slight bow is the best he can master.

"I had  _no_  idea you were here," she continues in the same conspiratory tone. "Were you truly so desperate as to end here? I thought you knew who your father's friends were."

 _And who his whores were_. "My standing was rather insecure, and I did not wish to compromise anyone."  _Or be sold to get you a boon with Cousland_.

"That was commendable, though probably unnecessary, given your current… status." There is but the slightest hint of contempt as Esmerelle looks over the griffin on his chest and raises her eyes to the Warden standards above them. Pretending to study the emblems, she adds, barely moving her mouth. "Or were you  _forced_  into this?"

"Forced by the circumstances, if I may say so," Nathaniel chooses to reply in a casual conversational tone. "As the last Howe, it is my duty to start rebuilding the family reputation."

Esmerelle turns her head abruptly. "The  _last_? Has anything befallen to darling Delilah?"

Nathaniel stares at her, at a loss, and Esmerelle gasps and clasps her hands. "Oh, I never  _realized_ … you know nothing of your family, do you?"

"No." His voice is terse and rasp, and though he is almost sure that Esmerelle knows all too well what she is doing, he still cannot help but ask: "Do you per chance know aught of them?"

"My dear boy…" The sympathy in Esmerelle's face is almost, almost convincing. "Then mine is the sad duty to tell you that Thomas is dead; he fought in the war and died bravely, honouring his name. Your sister Delilah…" she pauses, pressing her lips, "Delilah lives in Amaranthine."

"Delilah lives?"  _She lives, Maker be blessed. She lives…_  "How – How is she?" The momentary surge of joy recedes as he realizes that Esmerelle is watching him with predatory contentment. "How is my sister faring?" he asks again, more calmly.

Esmerelle cocks her head. "I cannot truly say – she never deemed it worthwhile to speak to me of her intentions or whereabouts, and I certainly did not intend to obtrude." A little pout makes her mouth seem even smaller. "All I can say is that she certainly keeps strange company, for one of her standing… as you do. I can't imagine what your father would have said."

The arrow is fired with deadly precision, and striking a spot Nathaniel has been avoiding carefully.

 _Forgive me, father_. "In case it escaped your attention, my Lady, father is dead and condemned as a traitor." The words hurt even as he utters them, yet there is no other way he can save his face and shut the harpy's mouth. "And though you may think differently, I have found an honourable way to redeem our name."

"By serving the man who killed your father." Esmerelle's voice is very calm and soft, the green eyes intent on him.

"By serving the man who stopped the Blight and saved us all." The clenched fists hurt, but he will not cow from anything, not even as he feels his cheeks flush. "By serving the man worthy of respect. My personal feelings… do not matter here."

Esmerelle watches him a little longer, with her eyes narrowed, then she slowly nods. "I hope then that your… expectations… do not fail you. – Whatever they are," she adds with a tiny smile. She puts briefly her well-kept hand on his shoulder. "Fare well, Nathaniel, in your… choice. You must know best what you are doing. I sincerely hope so."

As she leaves, her robe in green and amaranth violet, the colours of the plant that gave the city its name, rustles like leaves in the wind.

The dinner that follows takes ages.

Nathaniel is unexpectedly grateful for being seated far at the lower end of the table, in a safe distance from other inquisitors; he is even grateful for the increased appetite which allows him to mouth down enough food so as not to raise suspicion. He is seated next to Anders, who barely ever closes his mouth, indulged in an almost constant flow of speech which makes up for Nathaniel's silence.

" _She keeps strange company. I can't imagine what your father would have said…"_

_He would have said that I betrayed him and all he ever stood for._


	6. Revelations

The fresh wind blowing over the battlement soon pierces to the bone, yet Nathaniel keeps staring into the darkness, in the direction of Amaranthine. He retreated here in hope that the solitude might help him calm his mind, yet the hope failed him miserably. The ceremony, the prying questions, Esmerelle's cat-like eyes inquiring into his soul…

He is lost so deep in incoherent thoughts that he totally misses Anders' arrival.

"Wow, never imagined that I might sneak to  _you_ ," the mage chuckles at his startle, but his comment lacks the former edge. "The Commander asks if you are fit to see him now. – I could tell him you were in an imminent need of beauty sleep, if you wish."

 _Never_ _cow from anything_ … "I'm fine," Nathaniel grunts, probably not very convincingly, as the mage raises his brows but most fortunately remains silent.

As he approaches the Commander's door –  _Delilah's_  door – there is sound of raised voices. "You certainly needn't remind me of the consequences of my father's misplaced trust!" he overhears just as he is about to knock.

When he enters, Cousland is still glaring at Varel, who doesn't seem disquieted in the least. Both are holding a cup of wine, half empty; a third cup, already filled, is standing in front of the empty chair to which Cousland beckons Nathaniel.

Grudgingly, he takes the seat but leaves the cup untouched; his thoughts are disorganized enough as they are. "Commander."

Ned Cousland nods to him. "I hope you do not mind being summoned at this late hour, but, as I have said, there are things concerning today's event that I need to discuss with you."

 _Bloody well important smalltalk_. "I'm afraid I will not be able to relay every conversation precisely."

Cousland chuckles. "I certainly do not expect you to, and it's unnecessary, I got the picture as I went by. Who was that overzealous crone, by the way? I keep confusing the lot."

"Lady Lisa Packton."

"She tends to jump at an opportunity whenever she sees one," Varel fills in. "She's of no real importance, though she would love to."

"Interesting. Is she someone's pet?"

"Esmerelle's, I suppose, though not openly."

Cousland responds with a smirk this time, while Nathaniel keeps wondering why he was summoned. The Commander, though, takes his time, sipping the wine and watching Nathaniel over the brim of his cup. Finally, he says: "What I wanted to ask you is this: of all that rubbish you had to go through, did any conversation deviate from more than simple curiosity?"

" _Your sister keeps a strange company_." "I'm not sure what you would like to hear."

Cousland produces one more smile, yet his eyes over the brim are sharp as daggers. "As you may have overheard, we had a little disagreement here. Our good seneschal is not sure whether you should be briefed in; however, I've decided to take the risk." He drinks from his cup again, his eyes never leaving Nathaniel. "The thing is, that I was warned of a brewing conspiracy among my freshly sworn vassals, aiming for nothing less than my very life. Do you happen to be privy to such intentions, Nathaniel?"

Chill and heat war over his body, and it is the heat of his hurt pride that prevails. "Just how base do you think I am? Do you think so lowly of me as to presume that I have given up my revenge only to become a puppet in someone else's plans? I hardly expect trust or affection from you but do not at least slight my dignity!"

His outburst leaves Cousland unaffected. "I do not intend to slight you, and I  _do trust_  your common sense."

"I am certainly honoured," Nathaniel grunts.

"Don't be. I'm telling you mostly for you own sake." Seeing Nathaniel's frown, he explains: "If this rumour is true and there will be an attempt on me, you are in a perfect position for a scapegoat."

The realization dawns on Nathaniel even before the sentence is finished, and Cousland smirks again. "Yes. The irony that it is now in  _your_  best interest to watch  _my_  back is certainly not lost on me. However, now that the cards are laid on the table, I must repeat my question: did any conversation deviate from more than simple curiosity?"

" _Your sister…"_  "No. None of the kind."

Ned Cousland, though, is hard to fool. "And of other?"

Nathaniel carefully measures his words. "A personal matter." He hesitates. "I've learned that my sister Delilah  _lives_ … lives in Amaranthine."

Cousland raises his brows. "Well, that is certainly good news. You would like to see her before we leave for the Wending Wood, I presume? That should be easy to arrange, there is still enough time left."

Baffled, Nathaniel stares at him. "You – you would actually let me see her?"

Loudly, Cousland places his cup on the desk. "Nathaniel," he says, his annoyance uncharacteristically obvious, "just how base do you think  _I_  am? Why should I wish to prevent you from a reunion with your sister?"

 _You_ _prevented me from a reunion with my father, after all_. Nathaniel downcasts his eyes. No, he doesn't think Cousland base, yet he truly expects no goodwill from him. He abruptly raises his eyes, startled, as Cousland suddenly reaches over the desk and briefly touches his hand. "Never mind. Let's consider this a misunderstanding and carry on, shall we?. – It wouldn't be wise to travel alone, so take a couple of Garavel's men along." A pause. "Bring Delilah here, if she will."

For eternity, Nathaniel stares back at the man, sure that his ears must be playing tricks on him – or that he is being played tricks on.

" _Why_?" he manages in the end, feeling suddenly something inside dangerously close to breaking.  _Why are you so damned kind?_

Cousland briefly looks somewhere past him. "Once I claimed I would not pursue my revenge beyond the person of the one who harmed me. Seeing you bear the brunt of consequences of something you had no part in brings me no satisfaction, and though such is the custom of our time, you were right that it shouldn't be so. Besides, you are my responsibility now, and it is well within my powers to ease your lot, so I will." He makes a gesture towards the door. "I mean it, Nathaniel. Go talk to Garavel before he retires to bed, so that you can make your arrangements and set out in the morning."

"I…"  _Maker, I cannot_. Nathaniel musters the remainder of his strength. "I hope that you will not think me an ingrate but… I – I'd prefer to go on my own, at a later date."  _Especially on my own._  He clasps his hands to prevent them from shaking and lowers his eyes again, unable to withstand the scrutinizing gazes.

"I hope you do not think I'm offering you this only to have you both in my hands," Cousland says softly.

The thought is nauseating, but within a heartbeat Nathaniel realizes that he never considered this possibility plausible. "No, I do not, he replies. "It is only… it seems that my sister…"  _Keeps strange company_."… has settled for a new life and I do not wish to disquiet her by my sudden appearance."

To his left, Varel moves and clears his throat. "Nathaniel… what exactly is it that you learned about Delilah?"

Nathaniel keeps staring down but there is no escape: there is no way he can prevent them from investigating and learning on their own. His mouth is dry and the wine seems very compelling now but he is loath to show any more weakness. "I was informed that my sister…  _maintains a company unworthy of her status_. I'd like to find out what that means before… beforehand."

"That is a rather peculiar thing to say," Ned Cousland remarks, turning the empty cup in his fingers. "Who was it that expressed such an opinion?"

"Esmerelle."

"And she told you no details? Even more peculiar. Does she have a grudge with you or your sister?"

"She seemed upset that Delilah did not seek her aid, but otherwise no, none I would know of."

"And in what… standing… was she with your father?"

"On good terms."  _And why do you ask if she spread her legs for him if you apparently know already?_

Cousland slightly twist his lips. "Good enough to wish me dead?"

"I do not believe she would go to such lengths. She is an opportunist: if you do not touch her venues and even grant her a chance to multiply them, she will be all yours."  _Literally_.

Varel shifts again. "There were rumours of Esmerelle getting handsome coin out of the smuggling business in the city. If you do intend to carry out your plan against the smugglers, she might actually have a reason."

"She would have to know my intentions in the first place. – But we're digressing. For what reason should the viper tell Nathaniel what she did, the way she did, other than harass him needlessly?"

 _Was Esmerelle_ _truly intending something?_  "As you have said yourself, she  _is_  a viper."

"Vipers generally don't strike without a cause. – Though, it is at least good to know who we are dealing with. The question remains, what do you wish to do about your sister? It would be certainly desirable to find out, it is well possible that she might be in need of help."

"I believe this can be easily arranged," Varel interferes. "Before you set out on your mission, the Commander will surely wish to dispatch a courier to Amaranthine, am I right?" Receiving a nod from Cousland, he continues: "I can arrange with my contacts in the city to ask around, discreetly. As you return from the Wending Wood, I will have had a word for you ready. Would it be convenient with you, Nathaniel?"

His knuckles are already white with pressure. "More than so… thank you." Unsure how long he can still control himself, he raises his eyes. "Is that all, Commander? May I retire now?"

"Of course."

As he reaches the door, though, Cousland addresses him once more: "Nathaniel. Whatever Esmerelle may have meant, I am sure that you will find nothing dishonouring in your sister's conduct."

Nathaniel only nods, no longer caring that his hasty departure resembles flight. Blinded with tears he can no longer hold back, he hastily makes his way to his room. The Maker turns a kind face to him, and so he encounters no-one before he can finally fall on his bed and let go sobbing he has been suppressing for eternity.

It takes long to be cleansed of his grief: for his father, for Thomas, for his own lost hopes and future.

And for Delilah: the gentle little sister, cast out and debased.

The thought of Cousland's compassion in this matter feels like ash in his mouth; no worse, though, than the thought of his sister, who, despite all the reassurances, may well have been forced to sell herself for provision.


	7. A Spider In the Web

The horse jerks its head and pulls against the reins.

Nathaniel grits a curse through his teeth. Though he shares the horse's opinion of walking down a slope thickly covered with fallen leaves, slippery and obscuring holes and fallen boughs, there is no other way. He gives the reins a profound pull and leads the horse on, following Velanna, who has given him an impatient frown over her shoulder.

 _Velanna_.

When they set out to investigate the danger lurking for travellers in the Wending Wood, none of them could have imagined that the root of the trouble would be a single, tiny elf.

 _And very pretty_ , Nathaniel has to admit, thought after a couple of days spent in Velanna's company, other words come to mind more readily, such as edgy, bitchy, nasty, moody and touchy – Wolf is probably the only one who has not felt a lash of her tongue.

And brave, that can hardly be denied. Fighting alone against overwhelming odds. Solitary in the company of strangers who have no reason to like her, quite the contrary. And though the Commander treats her courteously, Oghren snorts every time she passes by and the four soldiers accompanying them do not even bother to conceal their hatred and disdain.

Deep within, Nathaniel has to admit that it is a relief not to be the one evoking such feelings for once – relief, and surprise that it should matter to him what these people think of him at all.

Or what Velanna thinks of him, for that respect.

Watching Velanna's self-confident gait as she picks her way along the ancient route, Nathaniel feels intrigued once again. He has seen many a pretty elf in his time – more than just _seen_ , in fact, and prettier than Velanna – but he never encountered a  _Dalish_  before.

And he never encountered a proud elf, either. Given his status – his former status – he is unused to elves watching him with cold indifference at best, or with open contempt.

And though the experience is baffling, even irritating, the prevailing response it evokes is one of respect.

Nathaniel feels his lips curve. When he first addressed Velanna as 'milady', the word rolled from his tongue quite naturally, and the elf's reaction was priceless. She opened her eyes wide and flushed deeply, only to scold him ferociously at once. Ever since that, she has been treating him accordingly – with a combination of bewilderment and half-hearted venom.

He suppresses a chuckle.  _Well, at least I fare better than Anders_.

" _Have I ever told you that I find tattoos on women incredibly attractive?"_

" _Have I ever told you that I find most humans physically and morally repulsive?"_

_Not that the mage was put down for a second._

_The tattoos are_ _definitely charming_ , Nathaniel ponders, just as Velanna frowns again, this time at one of the soldiers at the rear whose horse almost slips and starts prancing.

"Can't you shemlen do at least one thing right?" she snorts. Ignoring the collective looks she earns, she resumes her previous pace.

Nathaniel meets Cousland's amused glance and can't help but grin in response before he quickly turns away, embarrassed.

This is something he could have anticipated but, for some reason, did not: that travelling together might eventually build some common ground. Reason tells him that such development is desirable: what use is to feel the bile rise every time he looks at the man whom he pledged service?

Yet, whenever something like this occurs, it leaves Nathaniel feeling guilty – mostly over the persisting fact that he is actually  _enjoying_  himself, Cousland or not.

Autumn, with its colourful leaves and bright but not overly hot sun, has always been his favourite time of the year, and the favourable weather has allowed for a comfortable journey so far. The mood is less tense than at the Keep: thought contact is more frequent, and closer, it happens on a simple and neutral basis. There is nothing potentially ambiguous in chopping wood, fastening tent ropes, or passing round the salt.

Cousland probably feels it, too, Nathaniel realizes. He definitely seems less reserved, at least with the others, though he tends to be somewhat broody in the evenings, sitting separately most of the time – something Nathaniel tens to do himself.

Maybe the change is a sign of better things to come – a future that looks less bleak than he used to think.

_Or maybe he is simply too optimistic._

It is difficult not to, though, on a bright and pleasant morning, with the leaves rustling in a gentle breeze, whirling down to the ground in an occasional gush.

Even though he knows that they are marching into the mouth of darkness.

With a pang of unease, Nathaniel recalls the encounter with the darkspawn.

_D_ _arkspawn who do not attack at sight but bid their time, waiting, watching…_

_Darkspawn who plot and forge evidence._

Nathaniel did not have to see Ned Cousland's quickly concealed look of worry to understand that something is very, very wrong here.  _Could there be a mastermind behind their actions?_

_Velanna_ _can hardly be blamed for not seeing through their deception, she was caught in the web of their planning. Who would have thought that darkspawn might kidnap her sister and frame the humans?_

Her desire to save her sister at any cost is something he can understand for sure – and it's also the only topic that can be discussed with the elf without receiving half a dozen insults within a single sentence.

Hastily, Nathaniel switches the course of thoughts: thinking of  _sisters_  is something he does his best to avoid for the time being. Even the darkspawn are a welcome distraction.

The darkspawn… in his first fight, in the deep bowels under the Keep, he was not able to sense them yet; the memory of the weird feeling their presence evoked in his mind makes him shudder.

What sickens him most about it is the feeling of affinity; the stark realization that he has a part of  _them_  within  _him_.

The fact that they are heading now right into their nest somewhat spoils the trip.

The darkspawn presence in the woodland area was puzzling at first, but then Nathaniel remembered having heard of an ancient silverite mine in the area. With no better clue, the mine thus became the aim of their search in the difficult terrain. The two days of exploring the hills in the northwest part of the Wending Wood finally brought its fruit: the remnants of an old road, still recognizable but not easing their progress as much as they had hoped.

Nathaniel does not mind the delay in the least.

As they reach the bottom of the valley and proceed to the north, he notices yet another dark spot on travelling through the Wending Wood.

"Hold!" he alerts the company while still at a safe distance. To the inquiring looks, he points out the tree which stands alone, separated from the vegetation by a circle of empty ground.

"Maker, it's  _huge_!" he hears one of the soldiers mutter.

Velanna gives him a sour look. "Ancient trees do tend to stand alone, you know."

_Or maybe you are_ _just miffed that you did not see it first._

"We will find out soon enough," Cousland remarks dryly. "Secure the horses." He grabs hold of Wolf's collar. "And you're staying here, too."

Cautiously, they approach the gigantic oak and stop well out of the reach of its branches, their usual weapons replaced by axes. At Cousland's behest, Anders sends a bolt of energy into the trunk.

The tree shudders in fury, the creaking of wood resembling a roar. The branches beat frantically, the soil in a wide circle seemingly explodes as the roots make their way to the surface.

In the whirlwind of falling leaves and bursting soil, the ancient sylvan slowly starts to move towards them.

"Maker preserve us!" sighs a soldier – the same as before, a religious type called Gareth. Nathaniel softly repeats the prayer, just in case – they have fought a couple of sylvans once they left the main travel route, but the biggest of them was barely half the size of this one.

The branches and roots swarm like maddened pythons: the multiple blue bolts Anders releases crack the bark and the sap splashes far around.

The creaking and grinding take an even more furious tone and then turns into a wail, as a fiery explosion from Velanna's hands sets the half-dry leaves ablaze and the sap starts to sizzle.

The sylvan changes the direction and aims for the Dalish, who calmly maintains her ground and conjures yet another fireball.

More and more roots burst from the ground and branches lash violently, intent to crush the insolent offenders. Nathaniel smirks: the sight of a walking sylvan is impressive, and an unwary pilgrim would find himself in a great deal of trouble in the vicinity of one, but a well-prepared group means the sylvan's death.

Size itself is not enough.

A thin root lashes against Nathaniel's feet and he chops it off, retreating a couple more steps and watching out for others. The caution is necessary: though the sylvan's attention is aimed at the mages, it's never good to underestimate the enemy or lose concentration.

The truth of this old rule is quickly confirmed as Oghren gets caught by a root and loses ground. Within a second, he is drawn towards the trunk, encaged in a mass of roots. His screaming is interrupted as the roots suddenly freeze under the layer of ice; with a blast of energy, they are smashed to smithereens.

The sylvan shrieks like a wounded animal. With half of its branches already scorched and cracked, its attack falters and the wooden limbs start to beat around without coordination.

"Charge!"

At Ned Cousland's order, they start a concentrated attack at the roots, while the mages keep freezing and crushing the branches.

The sylvan's movements are slower and slower; then with almost a human sigh, the branches stop moving as the wooden body becomes too damaged to host the demon which animated it.

"Look out!"

With the roots only loosely in the ground, the tree inevitably falls, sending the leaves and soil into the air one last time.

Nathaniel does his best to wipe his face clean; as he does so, he notices Velanna, undoing her hair and shaking out of it dry leaves and pieces of bark.

 _A most attractive source of trouble_. He has always had a weak spot for blonde women.

He quickly averts his eyes, not to be caught staring: the elf would probably not appreciate his attention.

"You have saved us a great deal of trouble." Cousland approaches him, followed by Wolf, happily airing his glee of being on the loose again.

Nathaniel slightly bows in response. Though he is getting used to the praise, since Cousland never fails to acknowledge anyone's contribution, he is still uncomfortable with it, especially when it concerns wilderness lore.

All those years in the Marches which Nathaniel spent honing his hunting and scouting skills, he secretly hoped that this is something father would at least a little approve, or even appreciate; the memories of Rendon taking him along for a hunt, teaching him to track and stalk game, belong to those Nathaniel cherishes most. And though the said skills were not the main which he was supposed to acquire, he still hoped that it would be something they could at least have in common.

Instead, he uses them to impress his father's killer. What an irony.

Ignoring Nathaniel's discomfort, Cousland does not seem about to leave. "I was wondering," he says, looking at the fallen sylvan and scratching Wolf's head, "this is not the usual look of oakwood,, if I'm not mistaken. Perhaps it could be of use – better use than normally?"

The inner wood, visible where a mighty bough broke off as the tree fell, does have a completely different hue – tinged deep red, like blood. Nathaniel has noticed the colouring even with previous sylvan, though of much lighter shade, as well as the tendency to ooze sap in great quantity, as if the demon presence somehow affected the quality of the wood.

"I've never heard of such a thing, but I'm hardly an expert. After all, I haven't seen a sylvan before. It's well possible that their wood has some superior qualities – "

"You do not  _know_?" Having overheard their conversation, Velanna comes closer, her eyebrows raised. "Where do you  _think_  our best bows and shield come from? Or is thinking an activity you shemlen have abandoned?"

"I was under the impression that ironwood is the material of choice," Cousland replies calmly.

She rolls her eyes. "Of  _course_. Ancient sylvans are hard to come by, you know?"

"I can imagine," Nathaniel mutters, earning a furious glance before the elf struts away.

 _Impossible_. Nathaniel quickly averts his eyes; reading Cousland's mind is not among the skills he desires.

"Best bows and shields? Wade will pee his pants with glee when he gets his hands on it," Oghren remarks, watching a chunk of wood tied on the back of one of their pack horses as a sample for the armourer. Then he curses, as Anders spreads the healing salve over the reddened and cracked skin of his cheeks and nose. "Watch what ye're doing! You bloody nearly froze off my nose before, so don't ye break it off now!"

"It wasn't my spell!" the mage acts offended. "But if I were you, I wouldn't complain too loud, or she might freeze your other bits off next time."

With Oghren being the only casualty, they resume their journey in almost no time, and spend on it almost no time, either, since the next bend of the road reveals a half-hidden entrance in the slope of the hill.

The mine.

They retreat back to the fallen sylvan, and set camp further uphill, with good view to prevent an ambush. It has been long decided that the soldiers will not be going underground with the Wardens, as there is no telling how long the search of the mine might take and the horses have to be attended to meanwhile. None of the four men seems to be sorry to miss the rendezvous with the darkspawn.

Wolf, however, is of different mind; only a promise of morsel bones once they get back home persuades him to stay and guard the camp. Laying his head on his front paws, the dog stoically obeys his master's command.

Examining the equipment piling in the centre of the camp, Nathaniel disbelievingly shakes his head.  _The crystal lamps? Is there ever anything the man does not anticipate? First the extra axes, then the lamps – would he produce even a pinch of Andraste's ashes if they were required?_

_The poor Archdemon can't have stood a chance. The man is deadly efficient._

The thought if Cousland was equally efficient with his father, sends Nathaniel's stomach in a momentary churn.

The mouth of the rock is cold and damp, like caverns tend to be. There is not a single trait of darkspawn presence, yet Nathaniel somehow has the feeling that  _this_  is the place.

Shortly after they enter, there is an enormous pit: probably a remnant of a natural cavern. With utmost care, they descend to the bottom: the staircase hewn in the rock is cracked and crumbling. From what he can see, there are multiple tunnels ensuing from the cavern: some of them on the floor level, others higher in the steep face of the rock where the silverite dike once led the ancient miners.

Searching the mine will not be easy.

They make their way over a heap of rock, fallen from the ceiling, and access a more even ground. Still, not a trace of darkspawn, or anything else.

As they keep looking around, Nathaniel's eye is caught by a faint shimmering line in the dust under their feet. Before he can alert the others to the weaving pattern, Ned Cousland snaps his head towards one of the elevated entrances; following his look, Nathaniel discerns two figures standing there even as he feels the warning tug of that new sense in his mind.

Before anyone can react, the taller figure raises its hands, and the concealed lines on the floor glow with fierce light.

Nathaniel feels his legs give way.

_As it turns out, even Cousland does not anticipate all._

And then there is nothing but darkness.


	8. Illusions of Truth

The consciousness returns slowly, gradually; allowing to gain grasp of his whereabouts and remain in control. He is lying on a cold, hard surface which feels like stone.

_Floor._ _Too smooth… not the mine. And cold._

Very cold, in fact, since his upper body is covered only with thin linen shirt which he wears under the gambeson.

 _No armour, no weapons… probably._  He had a knife, a thin blade well hidden in his boot but he does not dare to move yet to check.

From what he can tell, he is unrestrained; minute, cautious moves confirm the assumption.

_Unusual tightness around the left wrist… a bandage?_

_What happened?_

Memory offers no clue what passed between falling into the trap and waking.

_They bid their time and waited for us. Darkspawn who catch Grey Wardens and take them prisoners._

_Hopefully, there is still 'them'._

Concentrating, Nathaniel recognizes the rhythm of someone's breath but cannot hear any movement; no rustle of wind or sounds of nature.

_A closed space, unsurprisingly._

The perceptions coming to his new Warden sense from two directions tell him that there are at least two bearers of the taint present.

_Hopefully, his fellow Wardens._

No light passes through his lids, so he assumes that there is dark. When he dares to open them by a slit, though, the complete lack of light still catches him by surprise. He sees nothing; there is no difference between opening eyes or keeping them shut.

_Underground. Must be underground, or…_

The other option is unnerving.

_It cannot be. It cannot be._

He feels no injury to his head or eyes. There is no reason why he should be blinded.

_Darkspawn, after all, do not need light at all._

Since his actions provoke no reaction, Nathaniel moves more profoundly, and immediately freezes as he hears a rustle of clothes.

"Wakie-wakie," says the familiar jovial voice. "Who's that?"

"Me. Nathaniel."

A chuckle. "A surprise of lifetime – most glad that you're up, Howe's little blighter."

"Truly so?"

Anders snorts. "Yup. As you have probably noticed yourself, we're sort of underclothed, some of us more than the others, and I sure don't want Velanna to jump at the wrong conclusion if I was the only one around awake."

Which sort of happens, anyway. In some respects, Velanna is very predictable.

Cousland is the last to come to, and the only one feeling a little dizzy – the only one to have both wrists bandaged, as well.

_Since when do darkspawn bleed their prisoners?_

Comparing their memories of what preceded before waking in the darkness brings no effect: all they remember is a tall, unnaturally emaciated figure raising its hand, a flash of white light, and then nothing.

_So w_ _e walked right into a trap. The question is, how to get out of it now._

The place where they are lodged is a small chamber of rectangular shape, with even floor and walls, the wall on one sides replaced by bars. The lock Nathaniel gropes feels crude and probably easy to open, had Nathaniel still his possessions.

The reverie as they quietly ponder the scarce options for their escape, is broken by a soft creaking sound, and light footsteps, even as Nathaniel feels the already familiar tug at his mind.

 _Darkspawn_.

The footsteps are too light for darkspawn, though, and the figure approaching in a halo of orange light emitting from a crystal is too slender, and –

"Seranni!" Velanna, whom the light reveals to wear only a sleeveless bodice, throws herself against the bars. "Seranni…" she repeats, the joy in her voice replaced by horror as she sees the dark blotches and dimmed eyes in the face that mirrors her own. "Oh Creators… what have they done to you?"

_Maker. A ghoul. Her sister is a ghoul._

"They haven't done anything," the elf replies in a clear, melodic voice, with a tinge of irritation. "I... I'm fine, Velanna. It's not me the Architect wants... I have to get you out before something bad happens. I don't want anyone else to be hurt."

Nathaniel blinks at the baffling scene.  _This is supposed to be a welcome from a kidnapped sister? And since when do ghouls talk, or was Cousland wrong again?_

"Here, take this." Through the bars, Seranni hands a key and a crystal lamp to Velanna, who only stands, petrified, staring at her.

Cousland abruptly moves to the bars, taking the objects from Seranni's hands. "How did you come by these? And how is it that you walk free? What's going on here?"

The elf quickly withdraws her hand. "I – I know nothing. Please, you must get out of here… They are going to come to check on you. You have to hurry!"

Cousland stares at her relentlessly. "Do you know that you are tainted?" he asks softly.

"That is nothing. I will be fine," the elf replies uneasily. Then she abruptly turns her head. "They're coming! Get out, quickly!"

Without a further word, she runs away, followed by Velanna's desperate cries: "Seranni! Where are you going? Wait! Seranni!"

Meanwhile, Cousland wastes no time. The familiar, slowly intensifying light of the crystal lamp repels the returning darkness, and the lock of the bars opens with a loud clank.

Nathaniel draws the blade out of his boot; the feel of the hilt in his hand reassuring as he hears the approaching, shuffling steps.

He never has the chance to use it. The approaching darkspawn are caught in a wave of intense cold, and their flesh shatters under Anders' and Velanna's concentrated attack.

A moment of tense waiting, and Cousland sharply nods his head in confirmation: no more darkspawn around. With a smirk, he grabs a crude darkspawn sword and tests its balance. "Will have to do," he mutters. "Wait, Velanna!" He grabs the elf's bare shoulder.

"We must find Seranni!" She seems to be close to tears.

"We will do our best. Just don't rush, or you will accomplish nothing."

 _Not to mention the fact that you can't save one who apparently doesn't care_. Looking aside, Nathaniel says nothing, either.  _We will be lucky if we make it out ourselves_.

Passing some more empty cells and a few turns, the corridor unexpectedly opens into a large room. Nathaniel blinks in disbelief.

From what can be seen in the light of their single lamp, the room looks like a… study. At least the long rows of books on the shelves suggest so, though the presence of other objects is rather baffling.

_Really, what use could be a strainer, placed just next to a jack-plane_ _, together with a broken Orlesian perfume flask?_

Another part of the room apparently serves as a laboratory: the desks are full of intricate glass bottles, tools and devices, the purpose of which Nathaniel can only guess.

"Hey! Look'ye what's here!"

Oghren's finding is another crystal lamp; two more are lying on a side table, disassembled. A quick search reveals other items of their possessions: their cloaks and backpacks, carefully folded, while some of the content is carelessly littered on the floor. Velanna immediately grabs her cloak and wraps it around her; then produces an angry hiss as she finds out that her water flask, decorated with silver and embossed patterns, has been unseamed and the pieces carefully lined on the table.

The other water flasks are untouched, as well as a supply of the tough dried meat, while the other food is missing.

Despite its consistence, wolfing down the meat is a matter of no time at all.

"You really, really don't mind eating something that has been pawed by darkspawn?"

"A lame one, Anders," Oghren grunts and washes the last mouthful of his share with a rich swig from his flask.

"Be careful with the water, we don't know how long we may have to do without it," Cousland reminds. "Don't feast while the deer is still in the woods."

"Or a nug in its hole." A loud belch, followed by characteristic vapours. "But can't see what makes ye think I'd be carrying around water."

There is still no trace of their weapons or armours, though.

As they move yet further into the room, Nathaniel feels his breath catch in his throat.  _Not just a study._

A massive stone slab, covered with carvings, and equipped with a set of manacles at each end, leaves little doubt of its purpose. A set of dissectors and lancets. And hanging from the ceiling, a massive cage. Two of them, in fact, both empty, though the stains on the floor suggest that this is not always so.

"Look out!"

An opening in the floor: a dark pit.

Despite the thin linen, Nathaniel is suddenly sweating. He knows what must be lying down there in the darkness, disposed and forgotten. Swallowing a curse, he covers the last couple of steps and stands at the edge next to Cousland, who is looking down, at the longer and shorter shapes, and an occasional circular one, with his lips pressed in a thin line.

_This is where our bones w_ _ould doubtlessly end, too. Still can._

The stench oozing from the nearby corridor is repulsive, yet with no clue where to go, they continue, covering their noses with the cloaks.

Another set of holding cells, with bodies in various stages of decay. Nathaniel hears Anders heave, and all of them walk faster.

Suddenly, Cousland motions to them to stop, and Nathaniel feels it, too: a weak presence of the taint, in the cell just ahead. And as they stand still, he also hears the sounds.

Ragged, gasping breath.

And since the feel of the taint comes from that direction, too, it must be –

With an angry snort, Cousland yanks at the bars, which open immediately.

_Little wonder it's not locked._ _The guy is hardly going anywhere on his own._

Once probably a handsome man in his prime, lies reduced to a helpless, shivering heap, rapidly gasping for air with his mouth wide open. Kneeling down, Cousland carefully turns him to his back, assisted by Anders, who quickly runs a blue-glowing hand over the man's body.

Nathaniel does not need to see the mage shake his head to know that there is no help.

"Can you do at least something to bring him round?" Cousland asks softly.

Anders hesitates. "I can, but… it might be more merciful not to." Hushed by Cousland's glare, he quickly averts his eyes and his hands faintly glow again.

For a moment, nothing happens, but then the breathing slows and the man rolls his head. Cousland gently raises him and puts the flask with water to the cracked, parched lips. The man drinks, gulping, then opens the deep sunken eyes.

"You … are not darkspawn…" The weak, hoarse voice is filled with disbelief. "You are… Wardens?" His eyes flicker over their faces, struggling to focus. "There are no more Wardens… except… Commander? Are you the Commander?"

"Yes, I am." Cousland takes the man's hand in his. "What's your name?"

"…Keenan."

"What happened, Keenan?"

"They… came as if out of nowhere. The Keep was taken. We…" His voice trails off for a moment and Cousland raises the flask to his lips again. The water gives Keenan the strength to continue. "We… were overwhelmed. The others… were killed, or worse. I'm… the only one left." He clutches Cousland's hand with a death grip. "Tell my wife… tell Nida…" His voice breaks.

"Do not worry. I will find your wife and tell her what needs be told."

Keenan does not seem to hear the soothing voice. His features contort. "I am so sorry I lost the ring... he took it." His body sets in a fit of spasms, which subdue as Anders reaches his hand to him again.

"He took the ring," he mumbles desperately, "my wedding ring… the gift from Nida…"

"Who took it?"

"The big one… with the maul. He crushed my legs so that I couldn't escape… he took my ring…" He tries to raise, unsuccessfully. "I know… I won't make it out of here but… please… get my ring back…"

"Rest assured." Cousland's voice is almost hypnotizing. "We will find the ring."

The way Keenan's features lighten sets a knot in Nathaniel's stomach. "Give it to Nida… tell her – tell her…. The ring…" The dying man stares in Cousland's face.

"I will retrieve your ring, and I will personally give it to your wife," Cousland replies firmly, as if the success was beyond any doubt. "I swear it. Is there anything else I can do for you, Keenan?"

Another fir of spasms, before the man replies almost inaudibly: "Don't let me rot here. I know... it won't take much longer… but still…send me to the Maker… quickly."

Cousland takes a deep breath and nods. "I will." He turns to Nathaniel. "Hand me your knife," he asks softly.

Nathaniel obeys without hesitation. Clean steel is certainly more fitting to end the life of a good man that the twisted darkspawn blade.

Still holding Keenan's hand, Ned Cousland places the point of the dagger against his chest. "Farewell, Warden Keenan. Your name will not be forgotten."

And then, as Keenan closes his eyes, with a firm hand he drives the blade home.

For a moment, he keeps holding the dead body, muttering something unintelligible, in a tongue Nathaniel is not familiar with. For some reason, Velanna gasps and stares at Cousland with wide eyes; then she turns abruptly and walks a few steps away.

It is Anders, with his ever-constant need to exercise his tongue, who expresses the collective doubt: "Just how do you intend to fulfil your oath when we are sorely unequipped and most possibly outnumbered, if I may ask?"

Cousland's voice is ice-cold. "I do not expect that our 'escape' would go unnoticed and I have very little doubt that a big brute with maul would miss the fun."

_Oh, yes. The fate will tend to itself. I just hope we will come over some better equipment than our current one._

They do. Quite soon, and in a manner none of them expected.

 _Maker. Great Maker_. Nathaniel cannot help but feel chills running down his spine as he watches a parody of himself, wearing his armour, armed with his bow and blades, slowly emerge from the shadows. The blackened face, the dull eyes – the original likeness is marred past recognition, yet Nathaniel cannot rid of the feeling that the ghoul's face was originally his own.

More figures, more familiar garbs. Cousland's griffon armour, Oghren's breastplate with geometric patterns. Anders' robe and staff. And –

"That  _thing_  is wearing my stuff!" Velanna's angry yell wakes them from the stupor as they watch the tainted copies of themselves approach.

Dealing with the ghouls while using only the low quality darkspawn blades, would have been almost impossible without the support of magic, but their relief at recovering their gear turns out to be pre-timely. They barely have the time to grab at least their weapons when another wave of attackers ensues.

The first two are felled by Nathaniel's arrows but then the mass is on them, and they fight for their lives.

With Anders and Velanna already running low on magic, Cousland and Oghren take the brunt of the attack, and without their armour, both suffer multiple minor wounds. Nathaniel himself has a gash on his upper arm and chest, from a hurlock which refused to die even with an arrow through its throat. When the fight is finally over, he exhaustedly sags to his knees.

_Maker. That was by a thread._

"Get your gear fast!" Cousland commands, somewhat unnecessarily.

"Blessed be the producers of lyrium, myself included!" Anders cheers as the search of his property on the ghoul's body reveals a part of his potion reserve. With an expert gesture, he uncorks a vial and imbibes its content. Clicking his tongue, he wiggles his fingers. "So, any volunteers for healing?"

"Just look around," Oghren grunts, sitting on the ground and trying to stop the blood trickling to his eyes from a wound in his scalp.

Cousland, ignoring his wounds, still stands alert, with his sword and shield ready. "Stop chitchatting and get down to work, Anders. If another wave comes before we get back in shape, we're in a great deal of trouble."

"What, even worse than we already are?" Having tended to Oghren as he struggled to recover his armour meanwhile, the mage moves over to Cousland. "You sure you don't want to sit down? – Alright, alright, just asking." Unbelievably, he manages to heal even during the constant flow of speech. "By the way, you don't expect me to actually wear something stripped off a ghoul, do you? I hear it's not among the recommended means of skin beauty care. – What?" He makes an offended face at the glare he receives. "I  _am_ healing you, am I not? So I talk, big deal. You knew I like to talk even when you recruited me, and when I'm nervous, like when I nearly get beheaded twice within a couple of seconds, I simply talk more. – Not to mention the stressful loss of my favourite piece of garbs which is spoiled past repair now!"

For a moment, it seems that Anders is in an imminent danger of beheading for the third time, but then Cousland chuckles. "You're impossible. If you prefer running around in little more than your smalls, it's your choice. I've been soaked in darkspawn blood so often that some more won't make a difference." He finally kneels down and starts stripping his armour from the ghoul's body.

A sudden explosion of fire brings them all to a startle. Standing over the body of the female ghoul she felled and which she currently set afire, Velanna shrugs. "I am not going to wear that filthy stuff again, and I'm not letting them have it, either."

"A most prudent decision." Cousland returns to his work, not looking at Velanna. "You could easily become tainted."

 _Provided that you are not already_ , Nathaniel realizes with a feeling of nausea, remembering Seranni's blotched features. With revulsion, he quickly puts on his gambeson. His eyes are involuntarily drawn back to the ghoul, whose expressionless face stares to the ceiling.  _Just what was this supposed to mean?_

_And, above all, what role does Velanna's sister play in it?_

The feeling that he is undoubtedly going to find out soon, is not reassuring in the least.


	9. A View From the Gallery

A creaking sound, as something shuffles against the rock. The creaking again, and a high-pitched call, like that of a bird of prey.

Fainter echoes of the call from several directions, and then yet another bird-like sound, this time reminding mostly of a duck's quacking.

Nathaniel smirks.  _That would be a super-overgrown duck. Duckling. Dragonling_.

In the dim light, piercing into the cavern through a hole somewhere up in the ceiling of the cavern, he recognizes the already familiar shape of the sleek, long-tailed body and the reptilian head.

Upon sighting, or maybe smelling them, the dragonling issues a series of fast clatter, and with a hiss, it charges. A streak of flame momentarily illuminates their surroundings as it harmlessly parts on Cousland's shield, while Oghren steps out and chops off the outstretched neck with a single swing of his axe. Smirking, he cleans the blade and nods at the Commander.

They cautiously continue towards the sound of the dragonling voices somewhere ahead in the large cave, leaving headless carcasses in their wake

"So far quite boring," Anders whispers and earns an angry hiss from both the Commander and Nathaniel alike.

Any other possible repercussions are thwarted in the noise of Velanna's stumbling. Nathaniel quickly reaches his arm to secure her, which she angrily pushes away, only to stumble again. Only then it dawns on Nathaniel that she is the only one to keep stumbling ever since they turned off their lamps, while his own eyesight is certainly sharper in the dark than it used to. He slowly exhales.

_There is but one logical explanation._

_The taint._

And though this certainly poises an advantage, it still makes him feel rather uncomfortable. He shifts his grip on the bow shaft and shrugs.  _Well, what can be done_.

Their progress slows even more but then comes the inevitable: they are spotted by a group of dragonlings and one of them issues a different, shrill call. Immediately, the cavern fills with the echoes of answering voices and sounds of rushing movement all around.

 _We are going to miss the boring part soon._ Nathaniel draws his bow and once he can aim a precise shot, he sends the arrow into the chest of the foremost dragonling.

"Now it's your turn, Anders!"

Even before Cousland finishes the order, the darkness is split with a flash of lightning, forking and dancing from one dragonling to another. Their bodies still twitch as more and more beasts ensue from various directions. The Commander and Oghren step out to intercept them while Nathaniel and the two mages spread havoc from the distance.

Over the shrieking dragonlings, there comes a deep roar.

"Watch out for the big one!" Cousland calls over his shoulder, hacking through the dragonlings.

_Ouch. This one's going to be tougher to take down._

The beast that rushes from the dark is three or four times bigger than the dragonlings, and charges with yet another roar.

The roar suddenly subdues to whooping as the dragon's head and neck temporarily cover with ice. The ice quickly melts, though, as a streak of flame issues from its mouth. Cousland evades the flame and wounds the beast deep in the chest.

It is during the angry, pained roar that Nathaniel realizes yet another sensation: the warning of the Warden sense. "Darkspawn!" he yells at the top of his lungs.

"Take them out, I'll deal with the dragon! Velanna, back me!"

There comes a group of about six or seven hurlocks; one of them exceedingly huge; the biggest Nathaniel has ever seen. Unsurprisingly, it is swinging a large maul in deadly arcs.

Nathaniel's arrow changes its aim almost of its own volition. It sinks deep in the hurlock's chest and brings it to a short stagger.

"Leave the bugger to me!"

Nathaniel mentally shrugs and keeps sending the arrows into the other darkspawn, accompanied by the flashes of fire from Anders' staff, while Oghren engages the leader.

The dwarf ducks from the swinging maul several times, moving much faster than Nathaniel would have thought possible for him, and finally, with a deep grunt, swirls his broad axe and cuts the hurlock's legs from under it.

"That was for Keenan," Oghren grumbles, and almost leisurely chops off the hand still wielding the maul. Only then he brings down the head of the axe and crushes the darkspawn's skull.

"Good job," Cousland assesses, somewhat short of breath. The blade of his sword – all of him, in fact – is covered with the dragon's dark blood, and he makes an unsuccessful attempt to wipe it from his face.

No more dragonlings or darkspawn issue from the dark and the only sound is that of water, trickling somewhere yet further ahead. It reminds Nathaniel how thirsty he is, not to mention the empty stomach. And though he would much like to rush to the water, there is one more job to be done.

Oghren lights the lamp and inspects the hurlock's cut off hand. With a swift move of his axe, he removes the fingers and picks one. "Ain't that the ringie ye're looking for?" he asks, tossing the finger to Cousland.

Cousland disposes of the digit and takes a closer look at a broad silver ring. "I doubt there would be another ring with an interwoven K and N around here. Hopefully, the second part of the oath will be equally easy. – But first things first: we must find an exit."

"We must find Seranni!" Velanna protests vehemently. "Or does my sister's life mean less than a dead man's trinket?"

 _Though it is not_ _certain to what extent your sister is still alive_. Nathaniel quickly averts his eyes.  _Cold reason is one thing, love for one's sister another_.

Cousland takes a deep breath. "Velanna. I hope you do realize that there is something very odd going on in here and I am not willing to throw away my life, or the lives of those under my command, in reckless rush. These creatures – " he motions at the heap of dragonling carcasses – must have an exit somewhere near. It is no use returning to the tunnels to look for Seranni if we cannot find our way out."

Cousland keeps avoiding the fact that Seranni may not be willing to come along, anyway, and Velanna very predictably overlooks what she is unwilling to see, either. "But – but – you aren't just trying to back out, are you? You promised me – "

"Don't slight my word." Cousland's voice undergoes that minute change which immediately unnerves those who are its target.

Nathaniel exchanges a knowing look with Anders: they have seen this before, and, for all her bravado, Velanna is not so sure of herself as she would like to be.

Drawing her cloak closer to her chest, the elf stutters se. "I – I apologize then. I just – it's – "

Another change of tone. "Believe me, I can well understand your anxiety, Velanna. On the other hand, you must understand that I have responsibilities I cannot abandon."

Nathaniel feels like gritting his teeth. Though he basically agrees, seeing how easily Cousland …  _plays_ … the stubborn elf is somewhat irritating.

"Ah… I see." At a loss, Velanna kicks at the rubble beneath her feet. "Alright, then. To the exit, it is."

Looking around in an attempt to regain her self-confidence, her eyes are drawn by the big dragon's corpse and she frowns. "Aren't these things supposed to fly? I can't imagine how it ever could with such… stumps instead of wings. Is this normal, or do you shemlen have some underdeveloped dragons here?"

The three men and the dwarf exchange glances. "If I'm not mistaken," Anders clears his throat, "this is not actually a dragon but only a drake – male dragons do not fly."

"Perfectly right," Cousland remarks dryly. "And since they do not lay eggs, either, we must expect a real flying dragon somewhere close." Seeing Anders look up uneasily, he smirks. "Not so close. Were there a dragon nested up there, it would already have been breathing at our necks. Believe me, you would notice."

They take a chance for refreshment where a small stream trickles out of the rock, and wash the worst of the gore. They rest only briefly, though; the ever-present acrid smell of the dragon faeces is, for some reason, more prominent in the proximity of water.

The dragon lair is a dead end, and so they return into the tunnels and take the other branch of the last junction. The walls are crude and uneven natural rock, probably a part of a cave system, and hopefully a way out.

Unexpectedly, the walls open wide and high, as far as they can see, forming yet another vast cavern.

Nathaniel holds his breath. The place looks as if the rock grew, or was moulded, into bizarre shapes of countless pinnacles, protruding from the ceiling or floor, and often even connecting them, in lonely pillars, or curtains, or whole forests of stone trunks.

Passing by one, Nathaniel runs his gloved hand over the surface but it feels solid like every rock, albeit somewhat slick with wetness.

The space grows even wider, and Cousland suddenly comes to a stop. To their left, the rock forms a massive gallery, with a mouth of a tunnel high above the ground, which they see due to the suddenly appearing light, coloured like that of a torch – or that of a glowing crystal they have already seen, as well as they have its bearer.

Seranni.

And not alone: accompanied by the figures they have seen, as well, one unnaturally tall and emaciated, the other short and sturdy.

Seeing the darkspawn which looks nothing like any other, with a strange structure merged with the flesh of its face, Nathaniel realizes that this must be the Architect Seranni mentioned.  _The owner of the laboratory. The experimentator._

The elf, unmoving, stands by the darkspawn's side, together with a dwarven ghoul whose face is almost entirely blackened. None of them speaks or moves, not responding to Velanna's cry as she sights her sister.

Neither do they react to a deep, rumbling sound from somewhere up, followed by a loud hiss and a flash of flame, illuminating the stalactite ceiling and a huge, winged shape hanging there like a monstrous bat, nor to a twin rumbling from the darkness of the cave.

They only stand, and watch, as the two dragons charge.

Within a split of a second, the quiet cave turns into chaos. The hissing of the fiery breath, the beating wings, lashing tails, flying chips of stone, and the roar.

"Go for the wings, bring them down!" Nathaniel hears Cousland yell, just as he tumbles behind a stone veil to escape a stream of flame, and covers his head at the nick of the time to protect himself from a shower of the shattered rock.

With a deafening roar of fury, the dragon turns to another target, as blue lightnings dance along its outline, while Cousland ducks from the front claws and drives his sword into the muscles of the dragon's shoulder.

The beast jumps high into the air, the uneven flopping of the wings indicating that it has been harmed, only to bear down again immediately.

Anders proves to be a wrong choice of target, though – the spell he conjures virtually repels the dragon, rendering it stunned momentarily and exposed to the blade of Cousland's sword, which immediately slices through the thin membrane of its right wing.

Nathaniel winces as the roar nearly tears his drums, and tries to locate the other dragon. It is nowhere to be seen, lurking somewhere in the dark, bidding its time to strike. Oghren, slowly turning round, is remaining alert, but Velanna decides to concentrate on the target at hand.

That is a fatal mistake.

As she aims her spells to support Cousland and Anders, the other dragon comes down on her like a bird of prey.

"Look out!" Oghren and Nathaniel yell simultaneously, a second before the maw releases its load of flames. Velanna screams, rolling on the ground; Nathaniel's arrow sinks into the huge torso with no effect, and then the beast disappears in the darkness again.

Oghren runs to Velanna, throwing his cloak over her and quenching her smouldering clothes, when the dragon re-emerges, aiming for them a second time.

_Maker, stand by me._

The arrow sinks into the eye socket, and the dragon flounces in the air. It flies over Oghren's head and lands on the floor, its remaining eye boring into Nathaniel.

This time, he does not even manage to address the Maker.

Relying on instinct, he evades the maw and claws and streams of fire, moving in a dance where a single misstep would be the death of him, knowing that without help, he is lost.

Then, as he backs away, he trips over one of the many protrusions in the floor.

The tripping probably saves his life, though: the striking claw which would have torn him from throat to groin, only shreds the armour and skin of his torso.

With a gasp, Nathaniel lands hard on the uneven rock, and despite the searing pain, he immediately jerks his body aside and rolls away, sensing rather than seeing the claw bearing down on him again.

He almost manages – almost. He cries in pain as the claw pins him to the ground by his left thigh, sinking deep in his flesh. Helplessly, he watches the open maw, blotched on the outside as well as the inside as if the creature was also tainted, hovering above him; the yellow eye, glowing maliciously…

An impossibly huge stone hits the dragon at the side of the head and disappears in the thin air, sending the beast in a stagger and distracting it from its prey. Swinging his staff, Anders sends a lightning right into the open maw. Cousland's blade swirls in glistening arcs, and the dragon's pained roar mixes with Oghren's war cry.

Gasping, Nathaniel crawls backwards, from the reach of the claws, until he hits with his back into yet another stone pillar. He grips his bleeding leg with both hands; then he recalls the emergency potion in the pouch of his belt. Uncorking the vial with his teeth, he pours the ruby content over the wound. An instant of burning sensation, but then the pain diminishes and the bleeding all but stops. With shaking hands, he dabs the last drops over the long scratches across his belly, affirming that they feel worse than they really are. Even so, he is beginning to shiver and his mouth is dry.

Nonetheless, there is no time to dwell on his injuries; the dragon, though under concentrated attack, still refuses to die. Clenching his teeth, Nathaniel manages to get up, leaning against the pillar, and looks around for his bow which he dropped as he fell. He spots it immediately, and groans with disappointment: the shaft is broken and shattered as the dragon probably trampled over it.

The cave resonates with a shrill, high-pitched cry, which subsides to heavy breathing as the dragon finally collapses, coiling and convulsing amidst the ruins of the stone, issuing weak flashes of fire.

Finally, its breath stops.

Then there is silence, and darkness, except for the pale radiance of their lamps – and for the flame-like light up there, on the gallery, where Seranni calmly watches as her sister, scorched and bloodied, slowly staggers towards her. Then, as if following an unheard prompt, she turns her head towards the tall darkspawn, and together with the dwarf ghoul turns and leaves, not paying Velanna as much as a single look.

"Seranni… "Velanna sobs. "Seraniii!" Wailing, the elf falls to her knees, then collapses to the floor.

The darkspawn – the  _Architect_  – raises its emaciated hands in a flash of energy, and the cave shakes. With a deafening crack, the gallery tears apart, and an avalanche of rocks from the ceiling seals the entrance, cutting of the darkspawn and its companions.

The rocks, however, continue to fall; the intricate protrusions all around shatter to pieces.

"We must get out! Lead on, Oghren!"

Anders grabs the senseless Velanna and with a grunt throws her over his shoulder, stumbling behind Oghren.

Nathaniel tries to hobble as fast as he can but after two steps, the leg gives way. Struggling, he raises, only to fall again.

Suddenly, Cousland appears at his side, dragging him to his feet. He grabs Nathaniel by the waist and half supporting, half dragging him, they follow the light of Oghren's lamp, obscured by the dust.

With one last mighty crash, the ceiling behind them collapses.

The shock wave trips their feet but they are unharmed; coughing, they finally make it to the opposite side of the cave.

"What now?" Anders snorts.

"We'd better get going, there's no tellin' if there's gonna come more rocks or not. There's fresher air here, must be close to surface"

It is past Nathaniel how Oghren is able to determine that, but they have to rely on his dwarven senses. There is a more imminent problem, though: the effect of the potion seems to be wearing off. "Can you do some healing, Anders?"

Snorting, the mage reaches his hand to him. " _Healing_? With all that torn flesh? Get you walking for a while, yes."

A wave of warmth washes over Nathaniel but a few cautious steps reveal that he still cannot do without support.

"Lean on me." Cousland's voice is strained, and only then Nathaniel realizes that he is probably also injured; he does not have his shield, and his left arm hangs limp by his side.

Silently, they again follow Oghren as the cave narrows into a tunnel. They drag on, until after several bends, they see an impossibly bright opening, and soon they stumble onto the grass before the cave, into the serenity of yet another autumn day.

"Maker's balls… we made it!" Anders' voice is tinged with disbelief.

_We made it._

The sun, the wind, the murmur of they coloured leaves… as if they stepped into another world. If it weren't for the blood, smut and dust, it would almost seem that none of it ever happened: the ghoul sister, the darkspawn, the tainted dragons.  _None of those weird, impossible things._

Nathaniel feels an almost irrepressible urge to start laughing.

_Being_ _hugged by Cousland was probably weirdest of it all._


	10. Learning Curve

The sunlight is unbelievably bright, and it takes their eyes some time to get used to it before they can inspect their surroundings.

The cave exits in a deep hollow, which soon opens into a broad valley, with sparsely growing beeches and grassy undergrowth.

Crossing the patches of grass, half-covered with fallen leaves, they trudge up the opposite mild slope.

Oghren is left to keep watch, while they continue a little further to find shelter from the wind in a shallow depression among the trees.

With an exaggerated snort of relief, Anders drops Velanna to the ground – the way he carefully picks the spot and puts his cloak under her before he does so, reveal that the exhaustion is somewhat staged.

Nathaniel is less picky, and drops down at the first opportunity, and so does Cousland, just next to him.

"Phew. I'd never think that one scrawny elf might give me such sweats outside the bed." Anders stretches his back and arms. "Very well. Healing time, you two?"

"How is Velanna?" the Commander enquires.

"Stable. The burns are not life-threatening, and hopefully not permanent, either – alright, I'm probably too optimistic, but nothing really bad, she'll be such a pretty face as before."

"Anders." Cousland's calm tone sounds rather forced. "Will she be able to walk on her own once she comes to, and will she be able to cast?"

"I can guarantee the former, the latter is hard to tell."

"We'd better not rely on it, then. Tend to Nathaniel first and Velanna next, so that we can move on."

The mage raises his brows. "Is it just me, or could you use some healing, as well? You needn't play a hero; I still have some lyrium left."

"I'm not playing a hero," Cousland grits through is teeth. "I've dislocated a shoulder. I'm not bleeding and I can walk, even put up a little fight if necessary. The priority is to get everyone on their feet, so that we could move further off the cave. I don't suppose we will be pursued now that the entrance is blocked, but I'm not going to take any chances that there are yet more exits we don't know of."

Anders shrugs. "Alright, alright, as you wish, there's no need to get excited."

As Anders kneels down to Nathaniel, Cousland stops him once more. "How much magic do you have left?"

"Don't worry, I'm almost in the full, and have one more dose left."

The Commander thinks for a moment. "Does Velanna have any lyrium on her?"

"Nope, 'was the first thing I checked."

"Keep the lyrium as emergency then, we're not exactly in the best shape for fight. Rely on potions instead as much as you can. I believe you still have your reserve?"

The mage looks as if he were about to protest, but then he shrugs again. "Yeah, there are a good few left, but I needn't remind you that spells are faster and more effective, do I? And just by the way, a dislocated joint should be replaced as soon as possible, you know?"

While he talks, he begins to remove the parts of Nathaniel's damaged armour to access the wounds, and Cousland does not bother to respond to his comment. He looks pale and strained under the dark scrub and dried blood, and sits with his eyes closed, breathing in a surprisingly slow and calm rhythm.

"Bloody templar tricks," Anders mutters under his breath. "Just how did he say he got by these?"

"I didn't," Cousland mutters without opening his eyes.

Anders snorts and shakes his head. "Here we go," he warns Nathaniel before he starts treating the deep wound in his thigh with the content of one of the vials from his pouch. "We're doing  _emergency_  healing, so it will be tad more uncomfortable than my usual flawless performance. I'm afraid the cleaning is inevitable, though."

The burning is more than just tad uncomfortable, but still preferable to the constant flow of speech that Anders produces. Clenching his teeth, Nathaniel manages to let the words buzz past his ears, returning in his thoughts to the feature his trained eye caught as they were crossing the valley.

_What could that_ _possibly mean? Definitely will have to check, Cousland will want to know._

–  _Nathaniel Howe, the dutiful Warden. Huh._

"… and here we are, as good as new," Anders finishes. "– Alright, almost. Try not to run or jump around, and generally take care, there is no bigger nuisance than a reopened wound."

Nathaniel sits up, cautiously flexing the leg. "Thank you."

A broad grin. "Always happy to help my favouritest Howe." The mage wiggles his fingers. "It'll be miss Waspy now, and then I suggest it's your turn, Commander, if you don't object. You may want to remove your armour meanwhile, I won't take long."

After a moment's hesitation, Cousland nods and starts tugging at the straps.

Having watched him struggle one-handed for some time, either too stubborn or too exhausted to ask for assistance, Nathaniel sighs. "Let me help."

To his immense surprise, his offer is accepted.

As he removes the first pauldron, Nathaniel's old suspicion is immediately confirmed. The armour is incredibly light for a full plate, explaining how a man of Cousland's stature is able to wear it and still fight the way he does.

He hasn't even finished unstrapping the breastplate when Anders is back. "I've done the basics to meet your requirements and I'll return to her for a little more work once I'm done with you. Either she comes to meanwhile or I wake her in an instant if necessary, I just thought we could use a little peace a little longer – is that agreeable with you?"

The mage grins at the lack of protest and produces yet another vial. "Here you take a swig of painkiller, Commander, and get up, please." Then he addresses Nathaniel. "Can you stand? I could use a hand – two, in fact."

The trial is successful. "What do you want me to do?"

Being explained what to do and how, Nathaniel can't help but glance sideways at Cousland, but if the man is not thrilled by yet another close contact, he hides it well.

Suppressing a sigh, Nathaniel follows instructions and puts his arms round Cousland's ribcage just under the armpit. He shifts his weight to the right, supporting the Commander against his side.

"Good", Anders assesses. He sits on the ground and reaches for the dislocated arm. "Now, bend over as much as you can, the arm must swing freely."

Reluctantly, Ned Cousland obeys. If his body could be even more rigid, he probably would have turned into stone by now. His breath becomes ragged.

"Fine. Get ready, it won't take long."

Nathaniel sets in expectation of the pull, and feels a shiver going through Cousland's body even before Anders applies any strength.

The mage pulls steadily, twisting the arm in the process to replace the joint in its socket. The effect of the potion must have been too weak for such treatment, though, since Cousland goes from gasps to a muffled cry, until he lays limp in Nathaniel's arms, shuddering and moaning.

_The Hero of Ferelden who has just fought his way through the darkspawn and dragons?_

Anders curses and together, they gently lower the Commander to the ground, where he curls with his limbs pulled to the body.

"Does it still hurt so?" Anders bends over him, concerned. "Just a moment…"

Nonetheless, the only effect of the spell is that the mage gasps and presses his hands to his temples. "Maker, I'm totally drained," he groans. "Pray that we don't meet anything more dangerous than a squirrel, I'm totally no use." Looking at his patient, he shakes his head. "And I was told that this was the  _gentler_  method."

The sobs and shudders cease as Cousland slowly regains control. He runs a still trembling hand over his face, then covers his eyes for a moment, taking a ragged breath.

"I am sorry," Anders says, without a single trace of joviality for once, "I must have done it wrong…"

"…not your fault." Cousland's voice is hoarser and weaker than ever before. Seized by a new fit of shudder, he attempts to sit up and manages only with Anders' help.

"Here, have a drink." As Anders brings the flask to his lips, though, Cousland sharply turns away, dry-heaving.

Anders curses again and raises his voice. "Hey, Oghren! Got some ale left? The Commander is not well."

Unbidden, Nathaniel gets up and goes to fetch the bottle, to get away from the embarrassing scene and organize his thoughts.  _Shouldn't he be at least a little glad to see the man suffer, to see that flawless façade finally shattered?_

_Probably not, that would be fiendish._

_But should he really feel sorry?_

Cautious straining of the injured leg brings about only mild discomfort, and so he returns with the flask in no time. The Commander sits with his eyes closed and his head lowered, and Nathaniel recognizes the pattern of the controlled breathing he has seen before.

The mage snatches the bottle from his hands and takes a sip. "Wow, not that bad, actually. I'd never expect that the dwarf might have a taste for fine rum. Must be accidental."

"'Seen ya!" Oghren grunts from his post.

This time, Cousland drinks without a protest; by the look of his face, he is probably exhausted past caring. As Anders returns him the bottle, Nathaniel also takes a sip – the air is chilly and pierces the sweated clothes, and the ale provides at least an illusion of warmth.

"Seen you both, buggers!"

The angry shout followed by a stream of profanities remains unresponded. Anders rummages through his pouch and produces a box with salve. "The shoulder could use way more healing and those bruises he failed to mention, as well. Help me undress him a bit."

Together, they unlace Cousland's gambeson and carefully pull it down from his shoulders while Anders keeps the formerly dislocated arm unmoved to prevent accidental luxation. "Slit the shirt," he instructs Nathaniel, "it is in tatters, anyway."

Manipulating a blade just next to the Commander's bare throat provokes no response.

Once the rags of the shirt, stiff with the dried blood from the previous injuries, are removed, it strikes Nathaniel how badly scarred Cousland is, for one of his age, and he swallows hard as he realizes that not all of the scars originated in fight.

 _But he's a Cousland_ , he thinks, dumbfounded,  _the Teyrn's son_ … Yet, there is no denying that at some point of his life, Ned Cousland was flogged – brutally, or repeatedly, or both.

And also magically healed, judging by the state of the scars, which look much smoother than those Nathaniel used to see on the backs of the convicts in the Marches.

_But even so: who dared to? And why?_

Anders spends quite some time rubbing the salve into the shoulder, then wraps it in a bandage. "No big moves," he warns the Commander, "until I get down to some  _real_  healing, it could snap out again."

"I know," comes the reply in a soft, dreamlike tone.

The mage frowns. "Maker's ass, this is not the first time? I guess I should fix the whole arm then."

"Unnecessary. Just help me put the armour back on."

Anders does so with surprising knack, allowing Nathaniel to refrain from participating this time.

When fully dressed again, Cousland finally opens his eyes. "Done? Go finish Velanna, then. It's time to get moving." He gets up and grabs Oghren' flask, and makes for the edge of the depression.

Nathaniel follows him with his glance for a moment, and as he turns his head back, he meets Anders' stare, uncharacteristically hard and cold.

"That was also your father's doing?" the mage hisses under his breath.

"My father would never –" Nathaniel blurts, exasperated, then comes to a sudden halt.  _Father would never treat anyone like that – but he would never turn on his liege and exterminate his family, either, right?_

Uneasily, he avoids Anders' eyes.

Without a word, the mage gets up and moves over to Velanna, still lying unconscious.

Nathaniel looks over his shoulder. Having returned Oghren his flask, Cousland neither stays with the dwarf nor comes back; instead, he takes an isolated post, extending the angle for the watch.

_Though keeping watch_ _is apparently just an excuse for being alone._

Nathaniel quickly makes up his mind. He joins Anders and kneels down next to him. "Could still use help?"

He receives a guarded glance but the mage replies with the usual joviality. "Sure. She'll be thrilled to find out that someone has been pawing her when she wakes up, so I could use one more culprit to distribute the blame more evenly."

They carefully strip the charred remnants of Velanna's bodice and start spreading the salve over the barely healed burns over her arms and torso.

"You weren't there with him during the Blight, were you?" Nathaniel asks as casually as he can.

"Nope." Anders seems intent on observing Velanna's blistered skin. "And, to spare you the time, neither was Oghren. He brags about some expedition into the Deep Roads they went on together but after that, they separated. Apparently, a smelly winebag of a dwarf was not a fine company enough to end the Blight."

Abandoning attempts at subtlety, Nathaniel asks bluntly: "What do you know then about what my father did?"

Again the glance that denies the jolly face the mage usually shows to the outer world. "Just what everyone does. Your father killed his father, and the whole family while he was at it, yadda yadda. The youngest son survived, killed your daddy. You came to kill him, he nearly killed you... the young somewhat fall short of the deeds of their fathers, ain't it sad?"

When Nathaniel does not respond, Anders shrugs. "Anything else to sate your curiosity, my dear Howe?"

Nathaniel presses his lips at the sarcasm, and Anders feigns offended innocence. "But I do like you Howes – I also like the Whys, the Whos and the Whats."

"Very clever. Just how long did it take you to come up with this one?"

Anders grins, showing his teeth and totally ignoring the cold tone. "Shamefully long." He wipes his hands and looks down at Velanna's peaceful mien. "Isn't she just lovely when she shuts up? Sadly, the time to wake the sleeping beauty."

Velanna is, in fact, more than lovely: she has firm round breasts, her nipples raised due to the cold…

Nathaniel quickly averts his eyes: this is neither the time nor the place to get aroused. With a sigh, he takes off his cloak and covers her:  _a nobleman's duty_.

Anders smirks. "Good idea, she may not attack us on sight."

"You can let her sleep a little longer. There is something the Commander will want to investigate."

Not giving Anders a chance to inquire, Nathaniel turns and heads for the edge of the depression, where Cousland stands, leaning against the trunk, his head tilted back, his eyes closed, with no indication of being aware of Nathaniel's presence.

Nathaniel clears his throat. "Commander?"

The dark eyes open, expressionless.

"I believe there is something you ought to see for yourself."

After a moment, Cousland nods tiredly and follows him down the slope, to the low undergrowth covering the bottom of the valley. Without a word, Nathaniel indicates the opening in the thin forestation.

"I see," Cousland observes after a while. "It seems there used to be one of those ancient routes. Do you think it joins the main road?"

"Quite possibly, but this is not what I meant." He takes a few steps to a pit in the grass, half-covered with fallen leaves, and brushes them aside to make the feature more visible. "Ancient it may be, but it has been used recently."

This finally breaks through the wall of indifference. Cousland kneels next to him, running his hand along the imprinted trail. "A wagon,  _here_?" He raises his eyes to Nathaniel. "Can you read more from these tracks?"

"Probably further along the route; they're not fresh, and if it weren't for the soft ground here, they wouldn't have been recognizable. You will want to follow it, I suppose?"

"Yes, definitely, but only after we locate our camp and get back in shape. Do you have a clue which direction we should be heading?"

Nathaniel has already given thought to that, but he has to admit ignorance. "There's no telling how far and in which direction we might have been carried underground, we could be just anywhere. I'd try south-east, if for nothing else, it should take us to the road and we'll be able to re-trace our previous route from there."

"That might take quite some time, and on an empty stomach. Pity you've lost your bow, we'll have to rely on what we find."

"That should –"

They both startle at a distant rumbling sound, followed by cloud of dust rising above the hills. Their eyes meet.

"I believe that the matter of direction is now clear," Cousland says slowly. "Let us only hope that there is still some camp to return to. – Time to set out, or was there anything else you wished to discuss?"

_Just how my father died._ _What happened. What he did._

_Neither the time_ _nor the place, if there's ever going to be._

"No, Commander."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events hinted at as well as an explanation of Ned's reaction can be found in my Landsmeet story, Necessary Things. Credits for medical details to Thanwen.


	11. Moments of Transition

_Damp, cold air, ever warmer as he descends into the lower reaches._

_The feel of the rock under his feet, smoothed by countless steps over the time. The obstacles which he avoids, relying on instincts,_ _on the Sense._

_The presence of his brethren, closer or more distant, like bright patches in the surrounding dark. The hazy, unfocused minds of the unwoken ones, roaming aimlessly over the place. The low, guttural sounds of their lust and yearning for the Song._

_His body moves of its own accord, following the familiar turns, till he approaches_ her _place: their half-sister, the Sense in her veins revelling to welcome him…_

Nathaniel Howe abruptly sits up in the darkness of his tent, gasping; he only slowly recognizes the familiar surroundings. The camp is quiet at night, except for the even rhythm of Oghren's snoring

Nathaniel rakes his fingers through his hair and pulls at it. The pain helps him regain control, at least partially – his heart still pounds and he feels as if choking. "Oh, Maker," he mutters and crawls from the blankets, out of the tent, into the chilly night. Sweating as he is, the breeze immediately sends him in shivers, but the fresh air helps.

With somewhat uncertain steps, he heads for the fire, burning low. He finds the kettle with the mint tea, still half-full, and helps himself to a generous sip. Sagging to his knees, he stares at the red embers.

_More dreams like that and I will_ _hardly last three years, not those thirty._

He shivers again, and instinctively embraces himself, trying to calm down his breath.

Out of the various aspects of being a Warden, this one is the worst. The reason tells him that the dream was most probably a reflection of their capture in the mines, but the vividness is disturbing.

With his senses still dulled by sleep, he doesn't hear the approaching paws until the beast is right behind him, and startles as the Commander's dog puffs at his nape. Nathaniel softly curses but still pats the broad neck, even as Wolf pries his cold snout into his face, with a pant of smelly breath.

A soft whistle, and the dog runs away. Instead, Cousland appears in the circle of the flickering light.

For a moment, they stare at each other in silence.

"Darkspawn dreams?" the Commander then asks softly.

Nathaniel nods. "You too?" he blurts, realizing that this must be the reason why Cousland is up, as well.

"Sort of." After a moment's hesitation, Cousland kneels to the fire, using a stick to shift a piece of wood closer to the flame here and there.

Nathaniel watches the flames leaping higher in a cloud of sparkles. He runs his hand over his face. "You said that the dreams would recede?"

"More or less." Cousland keeps staring into the fire. "Once we deal with that darkspawn threat here, it should be better."

" _Should_  be", Nathaniel repeats with a tinge of bitterness.

A glance. "Still better than during the Blight, you know. As for my insufficient knowledge, I've had only a few chances to speak with the older Wardens, and with the recent events, it's highly unlikely that there would be many more volunteers in Orlais to come and enlighten us."

He falls silent. It would make for an opportunity to leave, but Nathaniel is still loath to return to his tent, with the dream hovering fresh in his mind. He takes one more sip of the tea, watching sideways Cousland's profile lit by the flames, and makes up his mind.

"May I ask you something, Commander?"

He keeps staring into the flames. "Sure."

"Concerning Velanna – I didn't see you take her for that little walk like you did with me. When do you intend to – "

Cousland's head snaps up, his eyes like dark holes, shadowed from the firelight. "I don't intend to at all, and I strictly forbid you to mention the Joining or anything else in front of her!"

Exacerbated by the curt reaction, Nathaniel takes his breath for a sharp answer, but then reconsiders. "That was unnecessary," he retorts in a calm tone. "I wasn't going to spread Warden secrets or dissuade her from her decision."

After a moment, Cousland sighs and raises his hand in an apologetic gesture. "Point taken," he mutters. "Alright – I do not intend to tell Velanna anything until we are safely back at the Keep or even later. Not until it can be determined for sure if she has contracted the Taint or not. She's so bloody reckless, and if I tell her now what it takes to be a Warden and that she may have no choice, she might just run away in denial and die of the Taint somewhere in the wild. In the Keep, I hope I'll be able to make her see the reason, and keep an eye on her."

Nathaniel nods in acknowledgement and ponders the options. "But will she make a good Warden?" he asks.

Ned Cousland sighs again. "She is a capable mage, but as a Warden… I have my doubts. Unfortunately, we can't afford to be picky right now."

 _Though some would definitely prefer to._ Anders still had a red cheek from Velanna's slap, even after they reached the camp.

Not that Nathaniel blames her too much – waking bare to the waist, with Anders leering over, would probably provoke even one of a calmer nature.

Nathaniel unwittingly looks back at Velanna's tent and lowers his voice: "But what does she expect to gain? As I see it, the chances to ever find Seranni are next to zero. Her decision makes no sense."

"No, it doesn't," Cousland agrees, also keeping his voice low, "but I doubt that she will ever admit to herself that Seranni is lost." A pause. "However, as I have said, I have to take anyone who comes handy. I'm not going to force the issue with Velanna unless it turns out that she is tainted. If she's not, she'll have the time to reconsider, and she can stay or leave of her own volition." He passes his hand over his forehead. "Hard to tell the outcome, though. I can't recall anyone so stubborn even when she's apparently in the wrong."

The assessment cannot be more true. "Won't she poise a greater risk than gain, then?"

Cousland snorts. "I do hope that she will be able to grasp  _some_  notion of discipline and cooperation; otherwise, yes, having her along might turn out more dangerous than the darkspawn themselves."

Nathaniel can't help but feel the corners of his mouth lift, even as he sees Cousland twist his lips, as well.

_Having Velanna around will certainly be… interesting. In many respects._

The remark, however, diverts his thoughts in another course. "That darkspawn here… the Architect… You haven't seen anything like him before, have you?"

"No. Nor have I heard of such a case. It's most disturbing – we have barely been able to fend off the darkspawn as they are, and to think that we might face their numbers being able to actually think…" His voice trails off as he stares over the fire into the darkness. "I'll have to send word to Weisshaupt as soon as we come back, and to Orlais, as well, I guess."

That sounds ominous, and Nathaniel shifts uneasily. "You think that…?"

Even in the flickering light, Cousland's face has the look of worry, revealing the previous exhaustion. "I won't be taking any chances. We did our best to secure the Keep, but we're grossly undermanned. Another unexpected attack might sweep us all. The news must spread, and if anything like that has been encountered before, we will need any piece of information that might help. Besides…"

The pause that follows is long, and Nathaniel almost holds his breath so as not to repel the continuation, but Cousland still seems willing to keep sharing his thoughts: "There is one more thing that does not fit. We did encounter Blighted wolves in the area, which can easily happen as they scavenge, but I've seen no marks of wilting or corruption on the vegetation at either entrance – have you?"

Nathaniel takes his time to think. "No, none at all," he assesses at last.

Cousland nods. "I will want to explore the surroundings of the cave tomorrow, and that road you discovered, but I am already sure that we will find nothing. If someone was willing to come and have dealings with the darkspawn, probably even repeatedly, then the person was not afraid of contracting the Taint. Could it mean that it can be preventedby the darkspawn _themselves_? That's yet another thing I've never heard possible."

A logical conclusion, Nathaniel has to admit, though not the only one: the weight of gold has already overcome many a fear. Then a thought surfaces, and Nathaniel looks at Velanna's tent again, before he lowers his voice even more: "But if the Taint can be prevented – "

" – why was Seranni tainted at all? A good question. And even better one: why does she stay with the darkspawn if she clearly retains her own mind? It is known that the ghouls join the darkspawn, but only at the stage when they are no longer in their right mind. None of those I've seen with the symptoms as advanced as Seranni's, were still lucid."

The debate has shaken off the last remnants of sleepiness, and is much less awkward than Nathaniel would have expected. He is still far from entirely comfortable with Cousland, but already able to pursue his curiosity. He opens his mouth, and then hesitates.

"More questions?" Cousland asks, his eyebrows raised.

"Well, yes – if you don't mind me keeping you up?"

"No. I'm not sleepy in the least."

"Those darkspawn which attacked the Keep…" Speaking softly, Nathaniel follows an idea that has been forming for some time, "they were related to this Architect, right? Were there also any of that conscious type during the attack?"

Cousland watches him for a moment, considering. "They were lead by one," he admits in an equally low tone. "It seems that no-one in the Keep is aware of this, except those who survived that final encounter – that would be me, Anders and Oghren, and Varel. I would rather it stayed that way."

"Why tell me, then?"

A smirk. "You are a Warden, too. In case something happens to us, you will have to deal with it."

"You think that the danger is so imminent?"

"I think that we are all mortal. Accidents happen… and so do mistakes."

_Ah. Heroes don't make mistakes, they just happen?_

As if said aloud, something in Nathaniel's reaction causes a breach in conversation. Silence sets in, and lingers.

Wolf's paws rustle in the dry leaves again and he drops on his haunches next to the fire, reaching his head to Nathaniel for a scratch. Then, with a wide yawn, he starts wriggling, until he presses his side against his master.

Cousland pats the dog's back and puts his arm round his neck. "He's taken to you," he remarks.

Nathaniel clears his throat, unsure how to respond. The moment is gone; picking up the conversation is now difficult.

A branch cracks loudly somewhere to his right, and his hand reflexively reaches to his side, even as he realizes that he has left his weapons in the tent.

"Don't be alarmed. That's Rennis on the watch."

The dog remains calm, as well, and so Nathaniel relaxes. "I'll sure be glad to leave this place," he mutters more or less to himself.

"Not for long, I'm afraid." Seeing his frown, Cousland explains with something which suspiciously resembles amusement. "As soon as we return to the Keep, I'm going to organize an expedition for the sylvan wood, as well as for the silverite the darkspawn have so conveniently uncovered in the landslide. We certainly shouldn't ignore any resources the Maker has dumped on us in His providence."

"Certainly not." Though the idea of staying in the vicinity of the now sealed mine is more than unappealing.

A brief smile flashes across Cousland's features. "Would it improve your mood if you were put in charge?"

It takes Nathaniel quite a while to overcome his shock. "You would actually entrust me with  _command_? Why?"

Cousland looks definitely amused. "Well, as much as I'd love to be in charge myself, I'm afraid that I cannot neglect the matters of the arling any longer. Anders is too busy commanding his own tongue and without much success, which leaves you and Oghren – and though he does have experience from the army, I'm not entirely comfortable with the idea of a permanently drunk commander."

"But – " Even with the reasoning presented, it still sounds unbelievable.

Cousland tilts his head. "Well, I'm not going to push you into something you don't feel up to…"

 _Was that_ teasing _?_

"… and I have to test Oghren's mettles sooner or later, anyway…"

 _Don't you_ dare _to start grinning –_ Nathaniel inconspicuously grits his teeth. "The choice is yours. I will do as you command." He does his best to keep his voice neutral.

He receives an unfathomable look. "Of course you will – and I have no doubt that you will rise to the occasion."

At a loss, Nathaniel quickly averts his eyes.  _Damn those twists of his_. "Thank you." He has to clear his throat, to produce a more natural voice. "I will do my best."

Cousland does grin this time. "With a little luck, the worst enemy you will face here will be frost."

Wolf yawns again, and his master pats him mechanically. "Soon, boy," he mutters. Then he addresses Nathaniel again: "I believe the arrangements will be best left with Varel, which will allow you enough time for a little trip to Amaranthine."

_He hasn't forgotten_ _then._

Still with a smile, but in a resolute tone, Cousland relieves him of the need to compose an answer: "And I also believe there has been enough talking for tonight. You should take the chance to rest some more."

 _And t_ _his comes from one who had to lean on Anders most of the way._ Nathaniel gets up. "You too. Good night, Commander."

As he fastens the tent flap, he catches a glimpse of the man, leaning his head against the dog's while still embracing him.

Sleep crawls in almost immediately after Nathaniel warms up in the blankets, despite the disorganized thoughts which race in his mind.

This time, though, no nightmares plague him.


	12. And Now For A Word

The house is not very big but well kept; the pots with herbs on the windowsills are covered for the winter. A quiet, cosy place, in an alley of similar houses: a neighbourhood of people who are well off but not truly rich.

As Nathaniel approaches the dark door, his steps unwittingly slow down.

_Your sister abides in the house of one Albert Derwan, a_ _merchant of Amaranthine. By all accounts, they are married._

He is about to knock when he hears footsteps at the alley entrance.

A woman, wrapped in a thick cloak against the cold, carrying a basket covered with cloth. She does not notice him at first, as she struggles with the wind tugging at her cloak and at the cloth at the same time, until it finally blows down her hood and sends raven-black locks in her face. With an exasperated gesture, she puts down the basket and starts adjusting the cloak.

"Delilah…"

For the briefest instant, she looks at him without recognition, then with a girly squeal rushes into his arms in a swirl of flying skirts and loosened hair. "Nathaniel!"

He has to blink several times to clear his eyesight, to actually se that face which almost hasn't changed.

Delilah also cries, and laughs at the same time. She is wearing a plain dress, her hair is unadorned, but she seems beautiful; beautiful, and radiating joy.

"Let's not stand in the wind," she says at last, and recovering her basket, she leads him into the house.

The kitchen fireplace emanates warmth, and the whole place is as it seemed from the outside: well kept and cosy, but a commoner's house still. Delilah moves about with an air of confidence,  _belonging_  here... as if she were not of noble birth, used to much, much better.

Nathaniel is seated at a large table, worn but clean, and served with refreshment he does not really want, feeling his stomach tightening with anxiety, until Delilah sits next to him, her excitement somewhat subdued with an expectant look.

An awkward pause, as neither knows what to start with, and then Delilah takes a deep breath. "You knew where to find me, so you already know, I presume."

Nathaniel nods, and the lump in his throat grows. Nothing he is wearing reveals his current status; the badge with the Grey Warden crest is safely tucked in his cloak as he put it off. He also takes a deep breath.

His sister smiles at him warmly, with a tinge of mischief. "To save you the trouble, I know, as well: all of Amaranthine is buzzing with the gossip that you became a Grey Warden."

Nathaniel can well imagine what the gossip must be:  _Rendon Howe's son has become a lapdog to the very man who killed his father._

Yet, his sister is sitting here, smiling at him with affection, and her eyes sparkle with amusement. "Just the other day, two men at the market took great care that I could overhear them debating it. Fools. There was no better news I could get than you being on good terms with Ned Cousland. I was so worried about you before that… I'm glad that you were able to see reason, unlike poor Thomas…"She takes his hand in hers, her expression saddened.

"It is true," he says in a hoarse voice. "I became a Warden and pledged my service to Cousland. He… is not like what I thought he would be. I – I couldn't figure out what else to do. I thought you were all dead…"

Delilah presses his hand to her heart. "I am sorry… I sent a letter to the Marches to inform you what happened and that I was safe with a relation of Adria's near here but you never responded and there were no news of you until now. I wanted to send you a letter as soon as I learned, but Albert has been off on business and I didn't know whom to trust with my message."

"Never mind, but… er, how did you…?"

"Meet Albert?" Delilah cocks an eyebrow.

"Yes. That."

She blushes a little. "Very simply. When I was evicted, Adria – the poor darling! – arranged for me to stay on her cousin's farm near here, and he offered to take me there. – He was supplying the Keep on a regular basis, you know, and happened to be there when the edict was proclaimed. – Ah, well, and after that, he kept dropping by at every opportunity, to ask about my well-being. We talked a lot, and I came to like him very much, so when he proposed, I gladly accepted. As simple as that," she ends quickly.

He  _dared_? The blush tells that there is some more to the story, but Nathaniel is not inclined to enquire. He swallows hard and clasps both her hands in his. "Sister… you needn't stay here any longer. The Commander – he allowed that you may return to the Keep – invited you, in fact. Come back with me. This is no place for you."

As she looks at him with a flash of surprise, her eyes gain a hard look for an instant; a resolution reminding him of father's. She shakes her head. "No, Nathaniel. This is where I belong now. This is  _my_  house. My and my husband's." She watches him with defiance, self-confident and strong.  _Where is that soft-spoken, shy little sister of his?_

Seeing his confusion, she smiles again and sits closer to him, releasing her hands and clasping his in return. "Nathaniel, my dear. Believe it or not, I am happy here. More happy than I have ever been before. I have a good husband who adores me, and I adore him. This is more than I could ever hope for. This, and…" she blushes once more, and Nathaniel feels again the joy radiating from her, illuminating her features. "I'm with a child."

Unwittingly, he glances at her belly, and she laughs. "Not before the spring." She presses his hands. "I am more than happy Nathaniel."

"But you're  _Howe_ ," he blurts. Though he feels he should be glad to find his sister so content in her current state, so much unlike his dark forebodings, he still cannot grasp the reason behind her joy.

Her face darkens, like sun shrouded with clouds. "Not any more," she replies firmly. "I'm not Howe any more, and it's the best thing that ever happened to me."

Nathaniel only stares at her, as if she had just slapped him. Delilah raises her hand to his face and stops short of touching him. "Brother, there are things you probably never realized. What would have expected me as a Howe? An arranged marriage, based on the best bid."

_The bitterness that creeps in her voice… I never knew._

_Why did I never know?_

Delilah sighs. "Really, Nathaniel, what would you rather have for me? A marriage like that of our parents, with all those quarrels and hatred glowering underneath? Or marrying a man whom I chose and who deeply cares for me? In those four months I've been married, Nathaniel, I've come to know more bliss that our parents in years. I may not be overly rich but I am well cared for, I lack in nothing, and I don't miss the old life in the least."

She is looking straight at him as she is telling him these, these  _things_ ; the woman with his sister's face, and Nathaniel realizes that  _this_  is Delilah, the  _real_  Delilah – one that he never had a chance to know. "Why did you never tell me how you felt? Why did you never tell father –"

" _Tell father_? Nathaniel! I'd never have dared to  _hint_  anything he would have disapproved! Don't you remember – " She shakes her head. "No, you probably don't. You worshipped father… you never knew him for what he really was. I – " she pauses, running her hand over her forehead, then abruptly gets up and walks over to a small window. When she turns back, her face shows only the previous determination again. "I did not welcome the end that met him, but I did not grieve him much. I do not hate Ned Cousland for what he did, and I am most glad that you do not, either. Our father simply got what he deserved."

Nathaniel is not aware when he got up but he realizes that he is standing. "How can you say such a thing?" He is barely able to speak, and Delilah looks at him with confusion. "But you are with him… I thought…."

Nathaniel laughs sharply. "I am with him  _now_  because I saw no other way out… no other chance for the  _Howes_ , sister. Originally, I came to  _kill_  him!"

"Nathaniel!"

"No need to worry," he smirks, "I do not intend to any longer. I've decided to draw a line between the present and what happened during the war, and start over. War makes people do terrible things… – What?" he asks, as Delilah puts her hand over her mouth and her eyes widen.

"I presumed you  _knew_  when you chose to become a Warden…" she whispers. "Oh, Nathaniel… not everything happened  _during_  the war."

"What do you mean?" Even as he asks, he feels his stomach tighten again.

"The  _Couslands_ , Nathaniel… it was before the war.  _Before_. It wasn't war… it was betrayal.  _Murder_." She is very pale as she says that, but her eyes do not flinch.

"But they were proclaimed traitors – "

"Only afterwards. After our father forged evidence."

The room swirls; Nathaniel has to secure himself against the table. "This cannot be," he mutters hoarsely. "Who told you that? It cannot be – "

"I heard from his very mouth."

It feels like a final blow, and Delilah looks at him with pity. "Sit down, brother. I suppose I'd better tell you all there is to it. "

He obeys, or rather his legs do, and Delilah resumes her seat, as well.

"As you may recall, father always wanted to marry me into the Couslands," she starts matter-of-factly. "I was never thrilled by the prospect, as Fergus was many years my senior and Ned, well, I didn't think much about him then. At any rate, we were still only children." She pauses, her eyes looking past, into the days long gone.

"Then, shortly after you were sent to the Marches, Fergus Cousland married that Antivan girl. Father was livid. It did not matter that I was not fit to marry yet and Fergus a grown man; it did not matter that the Couslands never offered the match; he took it as a personal insult. For hours, he would go about how the Couslands slighted us by the union.

After some time, he somewhat calmed down. 'There is still Ned," he used to say, 'and who knows? You may yet be the Teyrna one day.'"

Nathaniel is beginning to feel nauseous, and Delilah presses his hand hard.

"Meanwhile, the bids for my hand were already coming. From Dragon's Peak, from the Western Hills… Every single time, father acted initially as if delighted, only to dismiss it later, because 'there was still Ned'. However, as it seemed, Ned was not interested.

Father started pressing the matter, more or less subtly… and every time he was rebuffed, it was the same story: the Couslands keep slighting us… keep standing in our way, blocking us from what should be ours."

Delilah's voice drops lower, her eyes narrow. "And then came Ostagar. Father was summoned to gather his forces and join Teyrn Bryce's army. I guess I could claim in retrospect that I knew something was amiss, but if I did notice a thing, I ascribed it to the fear of darkspawn. – So, father marched off and left me in charge of the Keep, and I wasn't particularly worried until, much sooner than expected, some of our men returned. It came out that father had taken a part of his forces and rode ahead to Highever; the remainder were to set camp and await orders. When the word did come, though, they were to return to Amaranthine. I did not understand but I thought that the King's army may have already vanquished the darkspawn and that only patrolling forces were required."

More and more distracted, Delilah takes a shaky breath. "And then, the news reached us that the Highever castle burned to the ground and the Couslands were all dead. And still not a word from father, no explanation – and by that time I  _knew_  that he was somehow involved."

Her words buzz around Nathaniel's ears but the underlying logic is merciless: he, too, is beginning to see the pattern. And though he'd much rather run away, he has to hear it all. "Go on," he bids her tensely.

Delilah nods and continues: "Later, word came of Ostagar and of the King's death, and Loghain proclaimed himself a Regent. Shortly after that, father returned unexpectedly. I had spent a few days in Amaranthine, and when I returned, the Keep was still in chaos over his arrival. I went to greet him immediately, afraid that he might be displeased by my absence. He was in his study, drinking, and it quickly turned out that he was occupied by other thoughts. In fact, he was in a hilarious mood.

'How is my girl?' he welcomed me as I entered. 'Here, child – toast to your father, the new Arl of Denerim and the Teyrn of Highever.'

I thought he was drunk but I did as I was told. He pulled me to him and made me sit on his knees like he did when I was a little girl. 'So, my Delilah, you are of the Teyrn's family now, and without either of those stuck up Couslands involved. None of them stands in our way now. This is the dawn of a new era for the Howes. Isn't that wonderful? Congratulate your father, girl, how he niftily arranged it all.'

'Arranged?' I asked.

He started to laugh, and emptied his cup. 'I did,' he said and his eyes glinted. 'I ran Bryce through even before he knew what was going on. He died on his knees and the last thing he ever saw was his wife kissing my boots. Fergus' corpse rots in Ostagar and his brat was burnt on a scrap heap, along with his Antivan whore of a wife, and Ned… if he doesn't rot yet, he will soon enough.' He chuckled. 'The  _pup_  did escape, at first, only to become a Grey Warden and thus be proclaimed a double traitor.'

'Traitor?' I couldn't help but echo him, but he seemed not to mind.

'I presented the most convincing proofs that the Couslands were collaborating with Orlais, and Loghain arranged that the Wardens seemed responsible for the King's death.' He chuckled again. 'Throwing my lot with the Hero of River Dane is most advantageous, as you can see – he rewards his allies well, and who knows? We may become even closer in the future. He is not so old yet, after all, what say you, my Delilah?'

'As it pleases my father,' I replied, and he seemed most satisfied. He bragged then about the glorious future ahead of us, and I kept nodding at whatever he said, without really listening. All I could think of was that father was a fiend, and I prayed to the Maker that he would not drag us all down when the reckoning came."

Delilah's voice trails off and she runs her hands over her face several times, her breath ragged. "He made some arrangement, took a great deal of the family treasure with him and left for Denerim again. That was the last I ever saw of him." Then she sets her eyes on him. "I'm sorry, Nathaniel…"

It takes him long to finally find his voice, and it is only the look of worry in Delilah's face that compels him to speak. "No need to, little sister. You've done nothing wrong. Come one, calm down. Don't disquiet my nephew, or niece, or both."

Delilah laughs with relief, and throws herself in his arms again. Her unrestrained joy, so different from her conduct as he knew her, is irresistible, and Nathaniel soon finds himself enquiring about the little details of her life and basking in the warmth of her smile, though his world has just shattered a second time.

And all the time as he half-listens to her chatting, there is but one thought resonating in his head.

_I was wrong._ _Oh Maker, I was so terribly wrong._


	13. Hunter, Prey

He wakes in the morning with a dull throbbing pain in his temples. His mouth is dry, and the mere thought of yesterday's brandy provokes an ugly taste on his tongue, persisting no matter how much water he mouths down.

_The taste of shame._

Washing his face thoroughly relieves the headache only a little; the inner ache still clutches his stomach hard.

 _Or maybe it is the brandy._  Looking at Oghren, still comfortably snoring in his bed, Nathaniel shakes his head. How the dwarf is able to drink such extensive amounts and never develop a hangover is totally beyond him.

The tavern is empty except for the Commander and Velanna, insipidly toying with their porridge. The former greets him with a curt nod, while the latter does not bother even that.

Nathaniel is grateful for the silence; the yesterday's portion of speaking will last a lifetime.

His own bowl of porridge arrives in no time, and so he can sink his eyes in it, safely avoiding as much as a single look at Cousland.

Despite the generous part of bacon, the oatmeal tastes dull and sticks in his throat, and the Warden hunger remains dormant for once.

Oblivious to the tension for a vexation of her own, Velanna finally flings her spoon into the porridge. "How long must I stay in this shemlen city? You have promised me hunting the darkspawn, not appeasing to some fat-arsed shems!"

_Apparently, yesterday's visit to the merchant's guild at which_ _the elf had to participate, left her rather displeased. Little wonder, what with her being the very reason of the guild's troubles of late._

Cousland raises his head from his portion and gives Velanna an unfathomable look. "As long as necessary."

"Which will be how long?" she hisses back defiantly, though the way she embraces herself reveals that she is well aware of the concealed warning.

"Until our business is finished here. Don't worry, you are going to enjoy yourself today. Killing shems is your favourite leisure of late, after all."

Velanna eyes him doubtfully, unsure of the meaning of it all and probably also finally sensing that something is not quite the way it used to. "Well, what are we waiting for then?" she huffs.

"Nothing much." Cousland pushes his bowl aside, almost untouched. Nathaniel shrugs and does the same; with resentment, he notices that unlike himself, Cousland is at least cleanly shaven.

_Image ab_ _ove all, hangover or not – but the man certainly does not feel compelled to cut his own throat whenever the blade comes near._

Abandoning their breakfasts to Wolf's eager maw, they retreat to their rooms to make preparations for the nasty business which cleansing the smugglers' den is bound to be. Having no other option, Nathaniel dons his old leather cuirass he has brought from the Keep: with the armour from the Wardens' supplies destroyed by the dragon, taking this one seemed like a logical option.

_Had I known…_

The familiar weight of Father's gift lies heavy on his shoulders.

He helps Oghren put on his heavy armour, carefully avoiding the dwarf's breath: the combination of uncleaned mouth and "liquid breakfast", as the dwarf calls it, is overwhelming. Luckily, he finds nothing strange with Nathaniel's silence – he was fast asleep when Nathaniel finally retired to his bed.

The sky is dark with heavy clouds, prophesying a bleak and dreary day with snowfall, and certainly not contributing to Nathaniel's mood, though the chilly air clears his head. He strides in Velanna's wake, having to pause every now and then as Wolf, apparently not bothered by aught, prances around them, until Cousland loses his patience and leads him by the collar.

Nathaniel sighs inwardly: the dog's pranks were a welcome distraction from his thoughts.

As they pass the guildhall on their way to the marketplace, though, he finds that a badly started day may still go even worse.

"My Lord… what a pleasant surprise!"

Esmerelle.

Dressed in rich furs against the cold, she looks much more like an arlessa, contrasting with the plain cloak of thick wool, covering the Commander's armour. She drops a curtsey. "May I hope that you will honour me by dining at my humble estate tonight?"

Cousland's hand tightens the grip on the collar as the dog stands tensed, but his reply shows nothing but perfect civility. "I'm afraid I must forego the pleasure today, milady, as my stay in Amaranthine is purely of business nature and we'll be leaving shortly afterwards. Perhaps another time."

Esmerelle raises her brows. "Business? I'll be glad to assist with anything I can."

"That is most kind of you, Lady Esmerelle, but unfortunately, it seems that the matter will be prone to issuing a great deal of unpleasant proceedings, unbefitting of a gentle lady like yourself. A good day to you, milady." Cousland bows and turns to leave, but Esmerelle is not going to let her prey from her claws so soon.

"Nathaniel," she narrows her green eyes in a smile. "It is good to see you, my boy. How nice of the Commander to have taken you with him." She puts her gloved hand on his arm. "Perhaps at least you might find some time to pay a visit to an old friend to talk when you are done here?"

_Talk._

Nathaniel presses his fist to his heart, though he'd much rather plant it in Esmerelle's smile, and bows. "You will have to excuse me, milady, we are in a hurry today. Fare you well." Taking Cousland, who has already made a few steps ahead and turned back to signal impatience, as an excuse, he bows again and falls in step after Velanna and Oghren, both ostentatiously indifferent to the exchange.

_Talk._

Talking he did yesterday, with the one who knew firsthand, and nothing Esmerelle might add can change a thing.

" _I have to speak with you."_   _What a trivial sentence, and what it brought about_.

Watching Cousland's stride, Nathaniel realizes the barely contained tension, so uncharacteristic for the usually controlled man. Little wonder, though. Knowing what he does now, he would probably never have approached him.

* * *

" _And you would hear that from_ me _?" The disbelief in Cousland's voice is almost tangible. "Do you not trust your sister's word?"_

" _I do. I do trust her, but she does not know all. Those who do are either dead, or such as won't tell me the truth."_

" _And you_ _would trust that_ I _will tell you the truth, plain and whole? I, of all the people?"_

I, your enemy?

_The last sentence, though it never crosses Cousland's lips, hovers in the air_ _._

" _I trust that you are a man of honour."_ Enemy mine _._

Are you even still one?

_He receiv_ _es a hard look, and Cousland's voice gains an edge. "You seem to be under a misconception that I only tell the truth."_

_But Nathaniel has gone too far to be deterred now from the decision at which he arrived during those hours he spent roaming aimlessly the streets after he had left Delilah's house. Ever since the moment he knocked on Ned Cousland's door and said that sentence, he cannot back out. "I am under the conception that you have told nothing but the truth to me so far. Is it not so?"_

_Cousland slowly lets his breath out. "It is," he admits softly. "_ _I had no reason to lie to you whatsoever."_

" _Then_ _do tell me even now what I need to know," Nathaniel persists._

" _You_ need _to… Why are you so intent on hearing things that had better be laid at rest? You know what your father did; the details of it will serve to no good."_

Because I cannot back out. I cannot live not knowing, and torture myself with the ideas what  _else_  Father may have done.

_But these are things he cannot make his mouth to tell, and so he only repeats: "I need to know it all. Please."_

* * *

Were it the previous enquiry at the pub, or their current prodding at the market, the presence of their closely sticking group provokes the expected response.

"We're being followed," Nathaniel whispers, pretending to be adjusting his cloak, as they are nearing their suspect.

The Commander does not respond in any way, but as they pass hidden behind a baker's stall, he releases his sword in its sheath.

When they approach the man matching the description of the smugglers' contact, his eyes dart from left to right before he takes flight – much more slowly than one would expect from a single lithe man among the sparse buyers.

He speeds up only as he reaches the entrance of an alley, to reach its end and hide behind a group of armed men waiting behind a wooden fence.

Nathaniel doesn't have to turn to know that yet another group has sealed the alley entrance: an ambush pattern as old as humankind itself.

This time, though, the prey bites back, and retaliates without mercy.

Checking that none of the attackers still lives, the Commander finally relaxes his posture. Glancing over his companions, he raises his brows, seeing blood on Nathaniel's upper arm.

"Just a scratch," Nathaniel replies with an equal share of irritation and embarrassment. It was a blow he would have easily avoided, but he feels that his reflexes are not at their best.  _Had he not been drinking…_

* * *

" _As you wish then. You demand to hear the truth, so hear you will. All of it._ _Make yourself seated, I'll fetch something to drink."_

" _You think I won't be able to face the truth without getting drunk?"_

_Cousland pauses just short of passing him in the doorway, in the closest proximity. "You think I will?" he asks softly and walks out of the room, leaving Nathaniel speechless._

* * *

He startles as Velanna approaches him and places her hand over the injury. "Scratches don't drip blood on the ground, fool," she frowns.

The warm tingle of magic that washes over him sends an unexpected wave of warmth into his groin, as well. He takes a sharp breath.

Velanna looks at him, puzzled, then shrugs and indifferently walks away.

Meanwhile, the Commander approaches the smuggler, lying pinned down with Wolf's solid weight on his back, the mabari's teeth just short of sinking into his nape. "You will lead me to your masters." A statement, not a question.

The man looks at him sidelong, not daring to move his head by an inch. His voice is a blend of anger and despair: "I can't! They'll kill me if I do!"

"And I'll have the dog tear your throat if you don't. You'd better think twice – if you are no use to me, I have no reason to spare your worthless life. Whereas, if you do as I command, you stand a good chance that there will be no-one left to chase you."

It is this moment that Wolf chooses to issue a deep growl, and the man screams in fright: the choice he is presented thusly simplified.

The smugglers' hideaway is one of the decaying barns among old shabby warehouses: a place where one would expect it, but never be able to find on his own, in the area of other similar building. Its inhabitants are what one would expect smugglers to be, as well: bold and insolent, and blind to reason when offered a chance to back out.

When the slaughter is over, they do not pause to check the bodies; they follow Cousland down the trapdoor, into the secret passage and storeroom.

The ensuing fight is the toughest, yet its ferocity feels welcome; releasing the frustration in stabs and slashes, offering a false chance to wash away what cannot be erased. Nathaniel glimpses Cousland, also fighting with lesser reservation than usually: trying to drown in blood his own demons.

_Demons._

Looking at the last man he felled, the red opening in his throat still seeping blood, Nathaniel shivers: for an instant, he sees not a smuggler, a burly man in his forties, but the six-year-old Cousland boy with his throat slit. He gulps as his stomach revolts, and hastily turns away to clean his blades.

"Too deep in yer cups yesterday, huh?" Oghren grins, passing him on his way to the pile of casks, crates and chest. His smile even broadens as he opens the first. "Look what have we here?"

_Br_ _andy, of course. He must have smelled it like a dog._

"We have no time for this, Oghren!"

Aback at the reproach, Oghren casts an offended look over his shoulder. "Why so waspish today? Too much ale, too, huh? Don't tell me you two were boozing  _together_."

 _Bloody near the black_. Nathaniel hastily looks aside, avoiding Cousland's glance.

* * *

" _How can you bear the sight of me?" Nathaniel blurts, the brandy_ _he has drunk already loosening his control._

" _It's not the sight of you, it's the memory of_ him _, sneering in my face. The memory of_ them _, lying in their own blood, as I saw them last… mother and father, as I was forced to leave them behind. I do not know if there ever may come the day when I look at you and see none of those, just yourself." He falls silent, and with one swift motion he mouths down the content of his cup. "Never, ever, can I forget…"_

* * *

When they surface from the hideout again, they're welcomed by the snow whirling in the wind. None of them inclined to stay, they retrieve their belongings and horses from the Crown and Lion, and hurry to the gate through the almost empty streets, in the rising wind.

The pikes above the gate are empty – no serious crime has plagued the city of Amaranthine of late.

Or rather, no serious exposed crime. A little smuggling, racketeering – no serious business like murders…

_Murders._

Nathaniel swallows hard.  _Father was lucky that his head did not end up here_.

* * *

" _Tell me – tell me one more thing… did he suffer?"_

_Intently, Cousland watches the diminishing content of the bottle, not responding._

" _For Maker's sake, he was my father! Whatever he's done, he was my_ father _still!"_

_Only when Cousland looks at him with a startle, Nathaniel realizes that his question was not ignored but overheard. He forces himself to calm down. "Did he suffer?" he repeats softly._

_Looking back at the remnants of the amber liquid, Ned Cousland shakes his head. "I ran him through and punctured a vessel. He bled out quickly." After a moment of silence, he refills his cup with a somewhat unstable hand, and slowly brings it to his mouth._

_As_ _he does so, the loose sleeve slides down, revealing the scars on his forearm: long, even marks of blades that slid through defence, such as Nathaniel bears himself. Watching yet another stripe of smoother skin, running round the wrist, he voices his thought: "You've skipped the torture part."_

_The hand holding the cup freezes in mid-air, until Cousland replies in the same emotionless tone as before: "I skipped nothing. It happened afterwards."_

" _You mean, father was not involved in this?"_

 _A long pause, which shatters his hope for relief even before words do_ _: "Only indirectly, since I was arrested under the charge of_ his _murder. When we issued from that dungeon, Loghain's elite guards were already waiting for us... One fight too many." Ned Cousland twists his lips in a sardonic smile. "I guess you may feel revenged at least a little."_

* * *

 _Revenge_. Watching the back of the man he originally meant to kill, Nathaniel takes a shaky breath.  _Maker, how wrong I was…_

_How_ _can one suspect that his own father is a monster unworthy of keeping his memory?_

Yet, the memories do persist: of father who watched him with pride as Nathaniel was trying his first sword, who told stories on long winter evening, with little Delilah seated on his knees… who rushed to raise Nathaniel when he had fallen badly, knocking out his breath.

He is short of breath even now, his vision blurred. He suppresses the impulse to wipe his eyes, only blinks a couple of times and watches the road ahead. Only when he has mastered himself, he takes one more look at the gate, the pikes:  _this is how it is. There is no escape_.

It is but a merest glimpse: as he turns his head, there is a movement on the battlement, as if someone was hiding from sight. Only years of practice allow Nathaniel to restrain himself and not look there again, analysing instead what it is he has seen:  _a man watching out, in this terrible weather…_

Nathaniel sharply inhales, feeling the skin on his back prickle. He waits until the city vanishes from sight, certain that there cannot be any attempt here in the open, among the farms encircling Amaranthine, and only then he leisurely nudges his horse forward. As he passes Velanna, she regards him sourly: she is not particularly sure in the saddle and holds her stoic gelding with inexpert hand.  _Too bad in a fight…_

Finally, he catches up with Cousland. The neutral glance he receives suddenly builds a lump in his throat. "I believe our departure from Amaranthine was watched," he blurts.

A half-audible curse. "We'd better look out, then. Tell the others to keep their eyes open."

The instruction will be difficult to follow, though: it is not even noon but it's growing dark, with the snow falling thickly. Rather than relying on eyesight, Nathaniel rakes his memory for the terrain along the road and the ways it can be utilized.  _If there was a watchman above the gate and sent some signal, the trap will be set near here. But where?_

The copses of bare trees are scattered and do not provide sufficient shelter; thicker forestation appears only towards the hills… where the road crosses a deep ravine. "If we're to be ambushed, then I know where. We should make a plan."

Long before they approach the ravine, the weather forces them to slow down. Nathaniel smirks grimly.  _Not the best time of year for an ambush – the falling snow obscures the target, the strings lose elasticity, and frozen fingers precision_.  _Good_.

Then, bridge is ahead.

There is nothing to be seen among the trees, the ground covered with snow offers no clue, but the wind does – Wolf barks sharply and stops short of entering the bridge, growling.

The bridge entrance disappears in fiery blaze.

A heartbeat later, Nathaniel slides from the horseback, feeling an arrow pass his hair as it swishes harmlessly through; some more deflect from Oghren and Cousland's armour while yet others are aimed at their horses. Over the wild neighing, he hears Velanna shout an incantation, and grins inwardly: he is familiar with the spell from the Wending Wood. Screaming of men caught by animated branches soon adds to the cacophony; no more arrows come and the attackers are forced to leave the shelter of the trees – those of them who still can. In the whirling snow, it is difficult to assess their numbers; Nathaniel can only estimate that they're still outnumbered at least three to one.

 _Three to one and well trained_ , he corrects his estimate as he ducks from a blow and nearly gets gutted by a left-hand blade the attacker has produced. The man is lithe and strikes like a viper, till he slips on the snow-covered grass and Nathaniel runs his shortsword through his chest.

Sensing danger from behind, Nathaniel quickly falls to the ground – not fast enough, though, to avoid being hit hard on the head. Stunned, he blindly slashes with his dagger against the enemy's legs. A howl, as the blade hits home, a flash of light, stomping feet… silence.

Gasping, Nathaniel slowly raises his head. A charred corpse lies just next to him, with yet others close around; Oghren is straightening, releasing his axe from the back of the man he killed.

No more enemies around – as it seems, yet another ambush has failed.

Footsteps. As he looks up, startled, Ned Cousland leans and offers him his hand to stand up. With a little hesitation, Nathaniel takes it and allows himself to be dragged to his feet.

"Good job," the Commander says softly. "Had we entered the bridge, none of us would have lived to tell the tale." Still holding his hand, he smiles, with a tinge of sadness. "Thank you."

Nathaniel takes a breath, then hesitates again.

* * *

 _The bottle now stands empty and Cousland toys with the cork, without looking at Nathaniel_ _. Both are silent, each with the thoughts of his own. Finally, Cousland raises his cup to his mouth once more, letting the last drops slide into his throat. As he places the cup on the table, he raises his eyes to Nathaniel, saying softly though somewhat slurredly: "You do realize, I hope, that I respect you." A pause. "That under other circumstances, I would be honoured to be your friend – but your friendship is yet another thing_ he _robbed me of… yet another reason to begrudge of_ him _."_

* * *

He lets the breath out, then reciprocates the shake and withdraws the hand.  _Things are as they are_. "I was glad to be of service, Commander."

_One should not wish for what cannot be._

_As it seems,_ _Father, I am also robbed, and I cannot even fully repay his sincerity. I can never tell him what you did to his mother._


	14. Voices of Authority

_Dear Delilah,_

_As I promised, I'm writing to tell you that I have safely returned from the Wending Wood, and I hope that my letter finds you in good health…_

Nathaniel hastily checks the lines and seals the vellum. A quick look from the window reveals that a light horse, apparently the courier's, is already waiting outside the stables, somewhat aside to avoid the commotion of newcomers flowing in to attend the court hearing.

"Why the hurry, are we under attack?" Anders stands in the doorway of the dining room, chewing bread and trying to flirt with sergeant Maverlies.

"I'm sending a letter to my sister, and the courier to Amaranthine is due to leave."

"Ah. That one. Well, good luck, but be extremely careful." His chuckle finds Nathaniel already striding past the corner, not wasting his time wondering what the mage may have been implying.

The day is bright and chilly, and the horse's breath is steaming as it snorts at Nathaniel's approach, rising the fine head and tossing the fair braided mane. The courier's fair braid also waves as she turns to him from where she has been tapping her foot impatiently on the frozen snow.

Nathaniel swallows. He has glimpsed the young woman several times before, as she was walking across the courtyard, slender and graceful even in the furs and thick wool. The first close encounter only confirms his expectation: the Commander's courier is very beautiful, though currently somewhat annoyed.

"So, you would be Nathaniel – Nathaniel Howe? High time you turned up, the Commander told me to deliver a letter for you, not to wait around."

Nathaniel slightly bows. "My apologies, milady. I wasn't aware you were already due to leave." In fact, he barely had the time to write the letter at all, it seemed that the courtesy to use the Commander's courier came as an afterthought.

The effect of the title is the same as usually – the courier's cheeks, already blushed by the cold, flush even more. "You needn't 'milady' me," she says curtly but in a more friendly tone, and her blue eyes sparkle. "Who's the letter to?"

Knitting her brows, she listens to his instructions, and repeats them to make sure that she remembers them correctly. "Shall I wait for an answer?"

Nathaniel hesitates, unsure if he is not stretching the limits of the Commander's goodwill. "Would it be possible?"

The courier shrugs. "As long as it doesn't take ages… These," she indicates the bag with missives over her shoulder, "are no urgent ones, so a little more time does not make a difference. – So, that was supposed to mean 'yes'?"

"Yes. It would be very kind of you, er…?"

"Astrid. My name is Astrid." For some reason, the reply comes rather gruff, and she narrows her eyes as if expecting yet something else but "pleased to meet you, Astrid." When Nathaniel makes no other comment, she nods approvingly. "So, it's not a habit among all the Wardens to play a smartass? Good."

As she turns to mount her horse, things suddenly start to make sense. "You have already met Anders, I presume?"

He receives a sharp look from the height of her saddle, but then Astrid leans forward and says sweetly: "He asked if I like to be astride and offered me a ride. – To save you the time asking what I answered, I do – on a good stallion." A quick, appraising look from head to toe. "I hope that unlike your mage friend, you do realize that substandard stallions are gelded."

Bursting into laughter is probably considered as the right response, since she rewards Nathaniel with a grin before she nudges her horse towards the gate.

_Oh, Anders. Apparently, your advances bring you into unexpected situations._

Nathaniel shakes his head and puts his frozen hands into the armpits; and as he watches Astrid leave, he realizes that he wouldn't mind finding what her  _standards_  are in the least.

When he enters the warmth of the dining hall, Anders is already gone, so the latest ammunition for the never-ending banter remains for another time, but just as he finishes his meal, there is another disruption.

Ever since her arrival at the Keep, Velanna stubbornly refuses to eat in the company of shems, and the expedition to the Wending Wood did not change that in the least. As she grabs her portion of stew and bread to retreat to her room, Nathaniel quickly rises to join her. "Shall I take some mulled wine for you?"

"What for?"

"It's a thing we do when it's cold."

No response, but she doesn't try to overcome him as they walk side by side in the corridor, and so he tries again: "Would you like to attend the court hearing?"

"What for?"

Nathaniel inadvertently grits his teeth. With the journey for the silverite and sylvan wood running as smoothly as Cousland foretold, he aimed his efforts at maintaining good relationships in his troop, namely with Velanna. There were days when he felt he had made a breakthrough, like when he managed to engage her in a conversation about Seranni's pranks… and there were days when she seemed hopeless.

_Today is apparently one of those days._

"Have a nice day, Velanna," he wishes without expecting an answer, and does not get any. With a sigh, he makes for the main hall.

The hall is crowded and the hearing is already well under the way, and Nathaniel arrives in the middle of a heated argument over a bridge ownership between Liza Packton and a young knight whose name he cannot recall. Finding a spot next to one of the supporting pillars, he leans comfortably and watches the show.

The Commander, sitting in his chair, politely listens and intervenes only when the arguments start bordering on insults. "Loath as I may be to uphold my predecessor's decisions, he was well within his rights to reward his vassals as he deemed fit. I would serve ill the King's law if I chose to upturn such decisions randomly. The bridge in dispute is yours, Lady Liza."

Lady Packton does not beam overly; the way Ned Cousland proclaimed his decree sounded as if she was actually the one to lose. The knight's face reflects a storm of emotions, but before he can outburst, he is addressed in a totally different tone: "However, I shall not have anyone suffer for acts of valour during a time when death was the penalty for resistance. Ser Derren, will you be willing to accept a compensation for the sacrifice which you have taken for the sake of stability of the land?"

Unsurprisingly, Ser Derren will, and judging by his shining eyes and straightened shoulders, the Warden Commander has just gained an ardent supporter.

Nathaniel smirks for himself: he is more than sure that Lady Liza will also be somehow  _compensated_  for her gain. Knowing her – and knowing his father now – Ser Darren was probably right that she was rewarded for some dirty work.

The noblemen and their suite leave but the hall is still full of people; commoners as well as, surprisingly, the soldiers of the Keep.

The following case is quite simple, and Garavel looks somewhat bored as he reports the crime of a shepherd who stole grain, and didn't know any better than to steal from the portion dedicated to the Crown. A capital offence, as Garavel does not fail to highlight, but Nathaniel does not share his conviction. By this time, he already knows his Cousland better than the Captain, and he is not disappointed.

"Stealing from the Crown  _is_  a capital offence and Alec's life is duly forfeit," Ned Cousland agrees, "but our King Alistair knew the pains of an empty stomach all too well in his time, and he would not have me waste a good man's life only because he fended for his starving family." Smiling, he leans forward. "I will put your forfeit life to a better use, Alec: stand in the service of Ferelden and defend her against the darkspawn. As a soldier of the Keep, you will support your family from your wages. – You may even bring your family with you: the Keep is still understaffed and working hands shall never starve here."

Appraising the shepherd's figure, Nathaniel has to agree: the man has known better times, and will make a good stuff for a soldier.  _Two birds with one stone. Waste not, want not. The poor bugger probably thinks that the Maker has just smiled on him._

The cheerful commoners leave the hall, and only the soldiers remain, waiting in tense anticipation as the guards bring in a shackled woman, wearing the Keep uniform.

Hearing the accusation, the Commander's face is like chiselled from stone, and his eyes bore into the kneeling woman. "I do not tolerate desertion in my ranks. What can you say to your defence, scout Danella?"

_Desertion. This does not bode well._

The scout, though pale, does have a spine; she does not waver from his stare as she says in a slightly desperate voice: "The darkspawn are closing in on my family's fields. I applied with Captain Garavel several times to allow me to go and bring them to safety but he would hear none of it. I saw no other way but to go on my own, but I would have returned! I swear I am no deserter, my Lord, I would have returned!"

The air grows heavy as the Commander keeps watching her in silence; no one dares to move or utter a word. Nathaniel feels his throat tighten: he has seen that cold, intent gaze… in the Wending Wood, when they chanced on the merchant who was trading with the darkspawn, on their way back.  _Armaas was his name_ , he recalls,  _a Qunari denying allegiance to the Qun. Also a fearless man, though knowing he was in the wrong_.

"Whatever your reasons were, scout Danella, you disobeyed a direct order at the time of threat to the land."  _The brisk, cutting voice, the same as when Armaas could not, or would not, disclose aught of importance about his darkspawn associates_.

"By all rights, you should hang for that."  _The blade, drawn from its sheath with a hiss, the magical runes glowing alongside… the blood splattering the dry leaves on the ground as the blade effortlessly cuts through the neck, flesh and sinews and bone, almost without slowing in its arch._

Danella's shoulders slump; the silence cuts in the ears. Without a change of tone, the Commander continues: "However, for this, and only for this once, I will make an exception, as the fault is also partly mine. I should have foreseen this, and instructed Captain Garavel accordingly." He rises from his chair. "Hear my decree: from now on, those wishing to arrange for the safety of their families will apply with Captain Garavel, and he will organize their departure in such a manner that the defence of the Keep is not compromised, and inform me of his action. The final authority over granting or denying the leave will be with me, and I will not tolerate further insubordination. Any deserter  _will hang_ , no matter his or her reasons. Mark my words."

In the dead silence, he walks over to the kneeling woman. "Rise, scout Danella, you are fully pardoned. Go with my leave to your family and return as soon as possible. Your family may enjoy the protection of the Keep, in exchange for their work and contribution to the Order and arling."

Nathaniel lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding, as do many around him. Relief washes over her comrades as Danella stutters her thanks; Varel's proclaiming the end of the hearing is drowned in the loud cheers.

Captain Garavel is the only one not to share the mood:  _being publically rebuked for not handling the situation is never exciting_. As the hall is slowly emptying, he takes his chance to disappear, while the seneschal stays to discuss something with the Commander.

Nathaniel is about to leave, as well, but as he glimpses the Commander nod at him over Varel's shoulder, he reconsiders.

Varel bows and leaves, and Ned Cousland turns to Nathaniel with a grin. "Come to watch the show?"

Somewhat shyly, Nathaniel returns the smile. Since his return from the Wending Wood, their relationship resembles normality, yet he still feels a little insecure. "It was… interesting."

"Varel thinks I was too soft with the offenders, but…" he shrugs. "I'm not used to killing off commoners."

"I doubt very much the said commoners felt encouraged to misbehave. Varel has always been all about order, as far as I remember."

A chuckle. "I was rather surprised he didn't tell the darkspawn off for trespassing. – Now, there is something I would like to speak about – "

He never finishes, as Varel dashes in, breathing rapidly, yet taking care to close the door behind him before he gasps: "Commander… Teyrn Cousland has just arrived and requests to see you. Garavel is leading him here…" He catches his breath. "And if I may say so, he seems rather ill-tempered."

 _Fergus Cousland. The son, the husband, the father_. Nathaniel's stomach twists.

"Oh, Maker…" The Commander frowns and turns to Nathaniel. "You must get out. That way, quickly!" Not waiting for a reply, he walks towards the main entrance, to bring the side door out of the line of sight of newcomers.

No sooner has Nathaniel reached the alcove that the main door opens again, and he quickly presses against the doorpost. There is no way he can escape unnoticed now, with the door wing opening into the hall. Cursing his bad luck, he presses even deeper into the corner, barely daring to breathe.

"Fergus!" The cheerful tone shows nothing of the previous shock. "That's a pleasant surprise! I wasn't expecting you… did you wish to attend the court? I'm afraid it's just ended."

"No. I've come to speak with you in a family matter, and I would speak with you alone." A deep voice, resonating with barely contained emotion.

"Of course. Come along, I'll send for some wine – "

"Drop the pleasantries; I'm in no mood for that."

"As you wish, then." Still, not a trace of responding to the obvious harshness.

At an unspoken command, there are footsteps, as Varel and Garavel leave the hall. The door barely closes behind them when Fergus Cousland lets the reins of his anger loose: "Stop playing games, Ned! You know damn well why I am here!"

The reply comes soft but firm: "No, I don't. I cannot imagine why you should come vexed, and start the talk by shouting at me."

"You don't?" A sharp, hoarse laughter. "Of course, how  _could_  you? How could you even guess what family matter might bring me here when you've been busy cuddling that bastard's whelp!"

A moment of stunned silence. "What are you talking about?"

"What am I talking about? About you dishonouring our name by petting the scum in public!"

"Fergus – "

"Or are you even bedding him? Maker knows you have shown poor taste in these matters before!"

"Now, Fergus, listen – "

"What, you would tell me that you haven't developed a taste for the same sex? Even worse, then – while I could understand some depraved lust that would drive you to sate your need on a  _Howe_ , I'll never tolerate poising yourself as a  _friend_  to him!"

Ned Cousland's voice is barely controlled. "I don't know what you may have heard but I'm not making public displays of  _anything_  you might find dishonourable. I may be seen in his presence, yes, but I don't understand what's so surprising about it, given that we agreed –"

" _We_  agreed on nothing! You  _informed_  me of your action, and I tolerated that, as long as it seemed that you were going to keep an eye on him rather than let him scheme on the loose! I never thought you would spit on our parents' memory by every breath you take in the company of the son to the very bastard who murdered them – who also murdered my son and wife, if you don't remember! Did you really forget all that blood that lies on him and his progeny? Tell me, Ned, did you really forget what Howe did?"

The reply is barely audible. "In case you forgot, I was there that night, brother."

"Then stop behaving as if mother and father never mattered to you!"

Nathaniel's clenched hands hurt, and he feels as if suffocating:  _he shouldn't be here. He should be somewhere else – not in this room, not in the Keep, somewhere entirely else. Another part of Thedas, or in the Fade… or dead._

He squeezes his eyes tight shut but he cannot close his ears to the shaky, broken voice: "How can you say that to me, Fergus? How can you say they never mattered to me, or that I could forget – "

A pause, filled with ragged breath. Then, in a stronger voice, as Ned Cousland partly regains control. "I'll never forget what Howe did, but his son had no part in it. He is a Warden now, one of the  _four_  I have at my disposal where I'd need dozens. I'm not exactly in a situation where I'd have much choice, don't you understand?"

"No, I don't." Cold, snapped words. "I don't believe there could ever be a need that would justify compromising your honour by keeping a  _Howe_  close. Are you daft, Ned, not to see that you're adding insult to the injury?"

"Haven't you just heard me? I don't have men to spare against the darkspawn, and few are as capable as Nathaniel. What were you imagining, that I made him a Warden just to have him locked up somewhere where he'd be no use?"

Nathaniel's blood, already running cold, freezes in his veins at the answer: "Why keep him anywhere at all if you have Deep Roads just under your feet? Surely, it has been long enough not to raise suspicion."

The silence that follows makes the hair on Nathaniel's nape rise.

"I don't believe that you have even said that." Ned's voice, though tense, finally resembles that he normally uses. "You would have me kill a man just for being his father's son? Be like  _Howe_? Surely our father taught us better than this, Fergus!"

A shuffle, and Fergus clears his throat. "Send him away. You can have my men at your disposal, as many as you require. Just send him away."

Leaning his head against the wall, Nathaniel slowly inhales.  _This is it, then. This is how it ends._  Then, his breath almost hitches, as Ned says: "He pledged his service to the Wardens as a way of serving Ferelden, to redeem his name. On these very terms I accepted him into the Wardens. I cannot send him away with clean consciousness – so that you could hunt him down in some dark corner, Fergus."

It is now Fergus' turn to remain silent, until he finally finds it in himself to respond with sheer disbelief: "You would side with  _him_  against  _me_?"

Silence.

"You've failed to deny the accusation." Ned, softly.

Silence.

"Fergus. I won't assist you in killing an innocent man – I won't let you twist your soul like that."

Still silence, and rapid breath.

"Brother…" Ned's voice drops low, desperate with concern. "I have seen a man corrupt his life and the lives of those he held dear for the sake of vengeance, and I don't want this to happen to you. Don't pursue this course, let Nathaniel be. Such hatred is below you. Please, come with me, we need to talk more about this –"

A grunt, and a sound of a faint blow. "Get your hands off me! As long as you harbour that scum's beget, you're not a brother to me!"

A gasp – such as Nathaniel heard once in the Marches, when the man next to him was shot through. Yet, Fergus Cousland mercilessly continues: "You apparently forgot what it means to be a Cousland the very moment you walked away on our parents to save your hide. Did you also forget that you owe fealty to me? You'd better think twice before you ignore the command of your Teyrn, and I'm telling you one last time that I want him gone!"

"Wrong and wrong again." A flat, colourless tone. "Maker knows I have tormented myself enough over being the one who survived, and you won't nail that one on me. As for the other thing, I owe you  _nothing_. You ceded the arling to the Wardens, but it was the Crown that granted it. The Arl of Amaranthine now answers solely to the King himself, and the Warden Commander answers to no-one. You have  _no_  authority here."

Fergus Cousland nearly suffocates as he hisses: "You  _traitor_ …"

The silence that follows is worse than the previous accusations.

Then comes a rustle of clothes, and heavy steps, somewhat shuffling.

" _Fergus_ …"

The plea brings about a slight pause, and then the door slams into the wall, and closes with another wall-shattering blow.

Nothing moves, and there is but one thing to be done.

On unsure legs, Nathaniel walks out of the alcove. "Go after him. I will leave at once."

Ned Cousland whirls around, with murder in his eyes, but when he speaks, it is in the same flat tone as before. "You will do no such thing. This is no longer about you or me. The Teyrn of Highever has no authority over the Wardens, and I cannot allow a precedent. You stay."

"I cannot stay at such a cost. I'll leave for Orlais, or Antiva –"

"I said  _no_!" The Commander half-raises his hand to his face, then drops it again. "Go now –" the flat tone finally wavers – "and do not approach me until I send for you."

"But –"

"Don't make me sorry I didn't hang you when I had the chance! Go!"

And so Nathaniel obeys, and retreats into his room, where he sits on his bed, staring at the wall for hours.

Once again, life tastes like ash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I picked the name for Astrid first and made the pun only afterwards, not the other way round. – It's not really important, since Anders would crack a sexual joke even if she was called Susan, Claire or Mnemosyne. 
> 
> I'm taking some liberty with the Brewing Conspiracy questline, so that's why you don't see Temmerly... yet. I also switched the order of the cases, since I think that nobles's disputes would be settled first.


	15. Lines of Communication

Smiling, his mother is looking past him with her dark eyes; youthful and full of life, with bright future ahead.

A false image, Nathaniel knows: the portrait does not show the furrows of constant frowning, nor the down-curved lips frozen in the sour expression of disappointment.

The portrait, like so many things in his life, is a lie. Like many things that he may even never know.

 _Did you know?_  Nathaniel asks his mother's smiling face, thinking of the secret passage leading from his father's chambers in Denerim right into the dungeon _. Did you have a clue of his depravity?_

_Could this be why you hated him so?_

The answer never comes. As a child, he never understood the bitterness between his parents; and since mother chose to distance herself from everyone, it was the father he looked up to and for whose attention he strived.

 _I blamed you_ , he says to the woman in the picture,  _I blamed you and was blind to his faults. I believed all he ever said, and put the blame solely on you._

Yet, the life-long bitterness that has taken hold in him is difficult to contend with. Adria was the motherly figure of his childhood, with a smile and a hug always ready. Mother's death in one of Delilah's last letters did not hit him hard, and the guilt and bitterness revolve within him, under the portrait's indifferent look.

_Indifference. Did you really hate your husband so much that you had to leave his children in the cold?_

_One of those things I'll never know._

_And of all places, you ended up here._

Nathaniel shakes his head, at the irony of it all.

He looks over his shoulder, at the massive door of dark wood, finely carved and inlaid with platelets of lighter shades.

Yet another well of secrets never to be revealed… unless he finds a clue himself.

_Rendon's room._

He never ventured to the place since his return from the Marches. The Wardens caught him before he got very far on that first occasion, and on his second coming to the Keep, and becoming a Warden himself, he carefully avoided the reminders of his past, with the present itself poising a challenge he found difficult to face.

And now he has made a full circle.

Nathaniel crosses the corridor and runs his hand over the carved surface, dwelling on the Howe emblem of bear passant, feeling the echo of the awe he felt as a child whenever he was summoned to father's study, or when he huddled in the alcove opposite the door, waiting patiently for the great father to come out.

More often than not, the door remained closed.

 _A familiar situation_. Nathaniel's lips twist as he tries the doorknob, just in case, as he did earlier that day. The massive lock is not of the kind that would poise a problem for him, yet he is loath to try – not in the corridor where everyone can see, and not under his mother's eyes. Even during that short while since he has turned away from her, he feels those eyes drilling into his back.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs is a welcome distraction, whether Varel brings the requested key or not: caught between mother and father's spirits, Nathaniel will gladly turn to any living being – almost.

Even before the newcomer turns round the corner, he realizes that the steps are too light for Varel, and the intuitive realization dawns on him just as the daylight from the narrow window falls on Ned Cousland's face.

Nathaniel freezes. They have not met or spoken since the court hearing, and encountering the Commander in front of Rendon's door makes the situation twice as awkward. Cursing his own stupidity for not foreseeing this, he bows, to buy himself time to come up with a satisfactory introduction and assess the Commander's mood.

The man saves him the trouble. "Varel informed me that you enquired about the key to your father's rooms." The tone is somewhat guarded, but not hostile. "What's your intention?"

 _To enter._  "I believe there is yet another key to be found in…"  _father's rooms_  "… there. A key, or a clue, to that door we cannot open."

The thieving toolkit from Denerim which awaited him upon their arrival from Wending Wood failed his hopes miserably. No lockpick, no skill Nathaniel applied, could unlock the ancient door and the way to the equally ancient revenant hiding behind it.

Ned Cousland raises his brows. "And why should you expect the key  _here_?"

Nathaniel hesitates for a split of the second, but he is duty-bound to answer, and since the Commander's sounds as normally as  _before_ , he allows himself the slightest shade of a smile as he replies: "Because I already know what's down there:  _the family tomb_."

Seeing the Commander next to dumbstruck is – or would be, if not for the recent events – quite satisfactory.

"I took care to scout the vaults thoroughly –"  _as you definitely know_  "– and there are no signs of the tomb anywhere. And since I know that it is there, somewhere…." He shrugs. "At least that explains why the lock is so well-preserved."

A slight frown. "Why didn't you say so previously? Or are you implying that you  _didn't know_  the whereabouts of your family tomb?"

The disbelief in the Commander's voice almost makes Nathaniel grit his teeth. "No, I didn't," he forces himself to a calm reply. "The vaults were considered dangerous even back then, we were never allowed in when children. The tradition had it that the ruling Arl took his offspring to visit the ancestral tomb at the day of their coming of age, but when that day came when I was already in the Marches. I never had a chance to see it."

The explanation receives a nod without further enquiry, and Ned Cousland bites his lip. "Very well, then." He looks at the door to the study. "Not sure if you find anything, though." Producing a large key with a bear crest, he slightly hesitates before unlocking the door with a familiar  _click_.

The study looks uninviting, bleak in the greyish light of a cloudy day. Unwittingly holding his breath, Nathaniel steps over the threshold.

Entering the study comes as a shock – not because of the changes here and there, but because the room bears the marks of a thorough search. The chests, drawers, boxes… all emptied, are lined along the wall, their content piled in various spots, sorted according to an unknown system.

 _Could have been expected_ , Nathaniel reprimands himself.  _Should have, in fact_. Yet, he cannot help but turn to Cousland for explanation, as the only person with the right – and reason – to have done this. "What were you looking for?" he asks, putting no small effort into not sounding irritated.

"Clues." The reply comes somewhat muffled. "Proofs of…  _involvement_." The passionate undertone makes Nathaniel's heart jump, vividly reminding him of the bloodlust in the voice of the older Cousland.

With the topic already hovering in the air, anyway, Nathaniel braces himself and plunges into the deep waters. "Concerning the last time… I apologize. I did not intend to spy on you."

The apology is waved off. "No need to. I figured out that you didn't make it out in time. It's …" Shaking his head, the Commander sighs and walks over to the window. "Did you manage to take a look at my brother?" he asks suddenly, observing something at the courtyard below.

"No. I didn't dare to peek out."

"Good that you didn't, he would have spotted you – though if you had, you probably would have understood better." He pauses again. "You must know, Nathaniel… You will recall that my brother was seriously injured at Ostagar, right?"

Nathaniel returns in his memory to the night talk in the amber haze of brandy. "You said that he was sent to some scouting mission and was overwhelmed when his men ran into the enemy."

A nod. "Loghain had him take almost all his men and perform scouting-in-force. The direction they were sent, they ran into the bulk of the horde itself. They never had a chance. Fergus… was badly burned, with crushed bones. He was left for dead as the horde moved on. It was a miracle that some Chasind hunters, who were hiding from the horde, found him still alive two days later. Even greater, that they took him along, to their shamans for healing. – as much as their skill allowed." He folds his arms on his chest, in a manner as if he were embracing himself, still not looking at Nathaniel. "Despite all their efforts, Fergus is crippled and scarred permanently. Both on the outside as well as the inside, I'm afraid."

Unsure what to say, Nathaniel remains silent, downcasting his eyes: the connection between his father and Loghain making for an obvious conclusion. Capturing Highever was no use, as long as its heir remained alive and able to demand justice. He clenches his hands. There's no helping it: father's crimes will keep resurfacing to haunt him forever.

"I'm not telling you this to make you feel bad about it," Cousland says softly, having turned back from the window. "I only need you to understand that… Fergus is not the man he used to be. He wouldn't have resorted to such… malevolence… before." A sigh. "I cannot let him do that, but… I cannot really blame him, either. Not when I know how easily I could have succumbed to such hatred myself."

Nathaniel nods, bowing his head even lower, before he gets hold of himself again. "But even so… you needn't have stood by me the way you did, not at such a cost." He locks his eyes into Cousland's. "My offer stands."

He receives a small smile, surprisingly sad and warm at the same time. "And so does my decision – though I do appreciate that." The smile vanishes. "Brother or not, I will not be manipulated like that. I am not the man I used to be, either, for that matter – not the little brother dancing to his tune any longer. Fergus had better get used to it." His lips twist again, in a bitter grimace.

Nathaniel eyes him with doubt: the raw pain he witnessed seemed too profound to be overcome so soon, and the slightest waver in the Commander's voice does confirm the suspicion. He is then even more surprised to hear: "Sorry for snapping at you the way I did."

Once again, the perfect move that leaves Nathaniel entirely defenceless, and he shuffles uneasily. "That's alright. Given the circumstances, I was rather surprised you didn't strike me down."

"I did feel like striking down… someone." A deep breath. "Preferably Fergus himself, I suppose. It would have been a nice payback for all the previous defeats. He always got me down with his weight."

The attempt at the light tone feels forced, though, and he falls silent, his eyes gaining a distant look. Then, shaking his head, he gets back in control again, addressing Nathaniel with one of his typical many-layered grins. "It seems that we are stuck with each other. Isn't it a lovely irony?"

 _Well, you're the one in the position to change that_. "Definitely. Maker seems to love such moments."

Cousland actually chuckles. "The Chantry would mightily disapprove of such an interpretation of His actions."

Nathaniel finds himself grinning in answer. The relief he feels over the twist of the situation is almost ridiculous:  _missing Cousland's good mood, is that even possible_? At a loss, he looks around, to switch the topic. The piled documents draw his attention. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"No. Some clues into his business with Esmerelle and other cronies, but nothing condemning." He gestures towards a small table. "There were also several keys – those I could not match to any lock are here, but I doubt very much any would fit to the crypt."

A single glance tells Nathaniel that the assessment is correct – none of the simple keys would fit to the complex lock. "Are you sure you've searched everywhere?" he voices his doubt.

Ned Cousland shrugs. "I searched all that I could find – I'm no expert, though."

 _Meaning, there could be a whole archive somewhere around_. "Would you like me to make a search?"

"Well, isn't this what you've come for?"

 _Partly_. "I was after the key, not correspondence."

"You're welcome to try both. Though… you do realize that if you find something that would link your father's vassals to the assault of Highever, I will have their heads for that?"

The tone would almost scare him, if he did not expect it. "Of course. I'd expect no less."  _And I'd do no less myself_. He ponders a little, and decides to venture forth. "Speaking of correspondence… have you per chance considered to check if Bann Esmerelle was in touch with Highever of late?"

He receives a quick look: one of those unnerving moments of practically reading each other's mind, sending chills down his spine together with the reply: "Always know the viper by its venom, right? I've arranged to have her watched, but it is too soon to expect any clues yet." A pause. "But once I gather enough proof… I'll crush the viper the way she deserves."

 _And I'll gladly assist_. "Let's hope then that Maker will show me his grace and lead me to what you are looking for."

The feral grin is like a seal of Bann Esmerelle's fate.

Nathaniel starts inspecting the massive writing table of oakwood, when the Commander suddenly stops him, looking out of the window. "I believe this can wait a little longer. If I'm not mistaken, the courier has just returned."

Truly so: even if he didn't remember the horse, Astrid's fair braid is hard to overlook as she strides across the courtyard. "Later, then."

Cousland smiles and hands him the bear key. "After you."

The iron feels cold in his hand, and before he closes the dark door, Nathaniel takes one more look at the empty study.  _Empty. The man from the childhood memories is gone. His twisted caricature will, hopefully, be gone with the time, as well._

Resolutely, he turns the key in the lock.

Turning back, he meets his mother's eyes, and pauses: yet another spirit he would gladly put to rest.

The Commander glances from him to the portrait and back. "Your mother?" he asks softly.

 _Mother_. Nathaniel feels his bile rise, and to his shock, it spills over his lips: all the bitterness that his parents' loveless marriage brought to everyone involved.

It is surprising how natural it feels, speaking his heart under Ned Cousland's perceptive eyes: a situation he would not have though possible mere weeks ago.  _Maker does love irony, no matter what the Chantry might say to that._

Be it the play of light and shadow, the mother's face seems somewhat stiff, now that its falsehood has been exposed under the scrutiny of the two pairs of eyes.

"What would you like to do with the picture, Nathaniel?"

The emptied room opposite makes for an easy decision. "Put it down. I won't be haunted by it every time I pass by."

As they descend the stairs, they encounter Varel, already bringing a handful of letters and glancing at the two men with only a hint of curiosity. "Your letters, Commander." Seeing Nathaniel's enquiring look, he says, keeping his face perfectly expressionless: "Astrid claimed that since she received the letter in person, she should hand in the answer in person, as well. You'll find her in the dining hall."

Cousland nods him off without any smart comment, and Nathaniel takes care not to rush down the stairs as long as he can be heard, suppressing the urge to run head over heels.

The dining hall is almost empty at this time of the day, and as he enters, Astrid waves at him from her seat, before she returns to consuming her portion with an appetite matching that of a Warden.

"There is nothing better than hot stew after a ride in the cold," she remarks, biting into the freshly baked breath with her even teeth. "Anxious to get your letter, I see?" She glances him over with a spark of mischief, though Nathaniel is perfectly sure he is not out of breath in the least. "Here you go," she indicates with a broad gesture that might encompass both the sealed vellum lying on the table and the space on the bench next to her, as well.

Nathaniel decides to accept both, and breaks the seal even before he sits down.

Astrid chuckles. "It's really sweet how you care about your sister. She is a fine lady, by the way…"

_Dearest Nathaniel,_

_don't worry, I'm perfectly alright…_

Somewhat perplexed, he raises his head to meet the sparkling blue eyes.

"She offered me refreshment while I was waiting for her to write the answer, and we had a nice little chat," Astrid explains, looking definitely mischievous, and enjoying herself more than just a bit. "It seems you are a favourite brother."

"Ah. I see."

… _your friend has been so kind as to wait until I compose the answer. She seems a very fine woman…_

_Friend?_

_Maker's breath, what the two of you were_ chatting _about, Delilah?_

The following lines bring him to a frown, thinking, until Astrid's voice snaps him back into reality. "Not bad news, I hope?" The glee in her eyes is replaced by concern. "Your sister seemed well and at ease."

"No, not really," he replies, still pondering the meaning behind.

The sparkles are back. "I was wondering… since I'm off duty for the rest of the day, would you like to keep me company?"

"I should –"he pauses, and quickly reconsiders. "I'll be glad to."

The smile he receives sets up warmth somewhere within, spreading to all parts of his body… all of them. The Commander will have to wait a little to receive his share of bad news:

… _her visit came in handy, as I was about to write you, anyway, about something that disquieted me a great deal. As I was passing the marketplace with Maritta, we overheard some men hiding behind a stall. They were talking against your Commander and the Wardens, Nathaniel, claiming that it was a bad thing for the arling to get into their hands. I might have dismissed as a fool's talk, if it weren't for a similar experience that Albert told me about after coming back from a tavern. You must inform the Commander that someone's wishing him ill and spreading dissent in the streets of Amaranthine…_


	16. A Late Delivery From Ancestors

The winter holds the Keep in its icy bonds; the snow whirls in the wailing wind, forming drifts in the courtyard and on the battlement.

However, the wind and frost do not make it into the room, kept warm by the fireplace and a brazier on the opposite side next to the bed. The window is well secured, the walls panelled with wood, the stone floor covered with pelts and woollen rugs… the comfort of the high status Nathaniel once took for granted, and hardly expected to ever enjoy again, not so long ago.

A good place to spend a winter's day and not fear the cold, or loneliness.

There is a profound remedy against both; a most efficient way of keeping oneself so warm that blankets are unnecessary. He is actually even perspiring, as he thrusts to match Astrid's moves, faster and faster, as she rides on the wave of the impending orgasm, tossing her head backwards and moaning.

' _I do like to be astride, with the right man.'_

Digging his fingers in her hips, Nathaniel groans: his own climax cannot be detained any longer, and so he slides a thumb along her slit, at that particular point which safely brings her over the edge even as he spills himself within her.

Gasping, she leans against his chest. "You've cheated," she accuses him.

"I'd hate to interrupt your entertainment."

"Pah. A lame excuse. But you're forgiven, for now."

She dismounts, panting, and Nathaniel pulls her closer, savouring the touch of her skin against his. Not being one to seek quick pleasure, come where it may, from whom it may, he has learned to live such moments to the full.

The warmth, the woman in his arms, the softness of his bed. A good moment…

A good life?

 _Definitely not bad_ , he decides, feeling not only sated but thoroughly satisfied, without the constant strain and tension of the previous months... without feeling the acute burden of being who and what he is.

Being just here and now suffices, for the time being.

_When, where did it start changing?_

What he likes to consider as a turning point floats before his eyes.

"You take an unhealthy fascination with that bow," Astrid remarks with a grin, following the direction of his sight to the grandfather's bow, hanging on the wall.

"Hardly surprising, given that it hangs just opposite."

Smirking, she rakes her fingers through the curls on his chest. "And just why did you hang it there in the first place, huh?"

Nathaniel cannot but laugh. "Now I am exposed."

"Quite so," she agrees, glancing along his bare body and snuggling even closer.

Adjusting the hold of her, he feels a smile form on his lips again, his eyes never leaving the bow.

_For a reason, milady._ _A piece of the past unburdened by any sin…where else should I want it than just there?_

* * *

_With a halo of blue light, an enchanted arrow pierces the revenant's tattered shape, followed by a shriek, bordering between anger and despair. With another white flash from the Commander,_ _accompanied by Anders' bolt, the black form finally dissolves, its last hiss lingering in the ears even after it's gone._

_They pause to make sure that this is really over, until Anders nods. "Done for good," he announces merrily, then looks around at the shattered and upturned coffins, their contents scattered on the floor. "Wow, what a mess…"_

_The Commander sighs. "Sorry about that. I'll have these restored, of course… sorry."_

Now, how exactly are you going to tell which bone is which, huh? _Nathaniel feels like rolling his eyes, but the man sounds more than just a little embarrassed, and so he checks himself. "That's alright… though assembling the bodies might poise a slight problem."_

 _The guilty look he receives makes him grin inwardly: to his own surprise, the hapless state of his ancestors' remnants does not discomfort him as much as he'd imagine it should. He feels almost none of the awe that he had expected: the bones are simply…_ bones _._

It is the living that matter, not the dead. Delilah. Myself. If there's yet any hope, any greatness in future, it will spring from us, not from these bones.

A couple of decayed bones in a musty cellar: all that remained from twelve generations of power and honour.

Time to start rebuilding from scrap.

_He looks around. The main chamber displays several entrances to yet other crypts. "Want to tour the, uhm, unafflicted parts, just to make sure that everything is safe around here?"_

"Yet _unafflicted," Anders mutters, which earns him a glare from both Nathaniel and the Commander._

_Searching the side crypts reveals no danger but as they return into the central chamber, the Commander stoops and picks something long among the bones. Inspecting what resembles a part of an old bow shaft, he turns to Nathaniel: "I believe this should be yours."_

_Hesitantly_ _, Nathaniel accepts the dusted shaft, only then realising that it is not broken as he assumed but disassembled. The bear emblem on its middle part is clearly recognisable, as well as the monogram above it._ P.H., and some obscure decorative symbols…

_Then, the information snaps in its place. Nathaniel sucks in his breath. "This… this must have belonged to my grandfather."_

_Ned Cousland raises his brows. "I thought your grandfather was… Tarleton?"_

" _That was his brother. Padric Howe… he was not remembered fondly, you know – or rather, not at all."_

_L_ _oath to share the family history in Anders' presence, he pretends to be examining the inlaid letters, until the mage pestilence voices his impatience: "Well, could we possibly move on with your precious useless family heirloom?"_

Truly useless?

_Slowly, Nathaniel sets the fitting parts against each other, yanking the hinge together – and gasps, feeling a surge of energy passing through the shaft, simmering in the etched lines and runes, leaving in his hands a shaft that is_ _simply perfect…_

" _Well. Oh. Alright, I revoke that_ useless _part," Anders finally breaks the stunned silence. "Now, shall we go somewhere more airy and sunny so that you can indulge in your newly acquired passion?"_

* * *

They rest for a while in silence, until Astrid sighs and gets up. "Now, the least favourite part," she mutters as she cleans herself, using the towel next to the washbasin. "Though I shouldn't complain, this –" she lovingly pats the rug with her bare foot – "is so much better than that the cold floor in the barracks."

The glint in her eye warns him, and so Nathaniel manages to raise his hand in time to catch the wet cloth before it lands on his bare stomach. Seeing Astrid's apparent disappointment, he almost gives in to the urge to retaliate, but the pool of semen and fluids already drying on him makes him reconsider.

"Yep, the good thing about being on top is that things tend to stick with their owner," Astrid remarks with a totally innocent expression

With a grunt, he gets out of the bed and walks over to the basin to wash himself thoroughly. After that, he starts picking up the pieces of his clothes, scattered on the floor together with Astrid's.

"What, you're not coming back?" Astrid inquires from the bed where she has retreated meanwhile, displaying her features as she stretches voluptuously, and rather obviously.

He cannot help but smile. "Tempting, but I should probably get dressed already, in case the Commander summons me –"

"Oh, don't you worry – as long as the Commander is busy keeping Maverlies warm, he'll have no desire of  _you_."

It actually takes him a moment before the realisation sets in. " _What_?"

Astrid laughs so hard at his expression that she rolls on her belly and buries her face in the furs. "Which is the shocking part?" she gasps between the fits of laughter, wiping her teary eyes. "That the Commander fucks, or that Maverlies fucks, or that they fuck each other?"

"Well…" Nathaniel finds himself pondering the options and shakes his head. "But… Maverlies? She is his older by, how many?"

Astrid scowls at him. "Maverlies has turned thirty one, and I do hope I'll have the complexion and tits like hers when  _I_  am thirty one."

"Ah. Uhm. I see." Then, a thought occurs to him: "And how would  _you_  know the qualities of –"

Surprisingly quickly, she sits up and tosses a pillow at him. It misses him and nearly knocks the basin. "From the  _bath_ , you pervert man!"

"I stand corrected, my lady."

A quick look. "Well, not quite yet, but  _that_  can be easily corrected, as well."

"Then I should probably return to my previous post."

"That would be most prudent. And fetch that pillow, will you."

Yet, even with Astrid in his arms again, he finds his mind still too occupied by the previous topic to start something else, even as her hand playfully follows the narrow strip of hair running down to his abdomen. He covers the hand with his. "Don't switch the topic yet. I mean, the Commander and Maverlies, are they… you think it is, uh, serious?"

"Serious?" Astrid snorts and shakes her head. "Why? You think that every time two people are for a fuck, they must be serious? – Like, the two of us should be serious, too?"

Nathaniel hesitates, since in his experience,  _no_  is not an answer women like to hear.

Astrid chuckles, undoubtedly sensing the reason of his hesitation. Turning on her belly again, she rises on her elbows. "I do like you," she says soberly. "You are a fine chap to be with, and I don't mean just in bed. But, except that, you're also a bloody noble, and a Warden on top of it."

"I'm not a noble anymore," Nathaniel says rather stiffly.

Astrid snorts again. "Yeah, that's why it's practically dripping from you. An official seal does not matter, it's what you are. – And here's what I am: a farmer's daughter and a soldier. I'm good with horses, that I am, and once I have saved some decent coin from my wages and loaned as much as I can, I'll go to Antiva. I'll get there one of those fine stallions of theirs and bring him back to my brother's farm to breed with our mares. In a time, we'll breed the best horses in Ferelden: fast and fiery like those Antivan, but hardy and steadfast like ours. Horses fit for a king. Horses as fast as the wind itself."

In growing excitement, she tosses her fair mane. "At least, that's what I want to do. Honestly, Nathaniel: can you see yourself fit in this somehow? Would you even want to?"

No, he doesn't, either part.

As he keeps silent, Astrid reaches her hand and taps on his chest. "And what do  _you_  want? Really, for yourself?"

_What do I want?_

His eyes are invariably drawn to the great bow on the wall. ' _To restore my House and my honour'_  would be the first-hand answer, yet it somehow feels dull and lifeless, when compared to the dream of the fast horses, with their manes and tails flowing in the wind.

"To… settle," he says at last, struggling to find the words. "Not like, with a wife and children, I don't think I'm a family type, but… to have a place somewhere, I guess? Close to Delilah, and with people who – who don't mistrust me or despise me on sight. To belong, to be accepted… to be Nathaniel Howe and not  _the_  Howe, the pariah, the outcast…"

' _I do not know if there ever may come the day when I look at you and see just yourself.'_

The memory brings him to a halt.

Astrid squeezes his hand. "I guess you're doing just fine," she says sympathetically. "I mean, when the Commander brought you along from Amaranthine, the guys in the barracks were placing bets how long before you try to take him out, or he you."

 _Oh. So good to know._ He presses his lips.

"Don't pout, that's how it was, really.  _Was_. I thought you two are on pretty good terms these days, or not?"

 _The very embodiment of buddy-buddies_ _, sure_. "I suppose you could say so, though I never expected it. What do the guys in the barracks say to that?"

A sneer. "Those who lost most on you still cling to the hope that you  _will_  eventually try to cut his throat and they will get their money back. Other than that, they say you are a fucking broody type but you're pretty good with your arrows – and I can certainly confirm that."

So she can, definitely – as soon as he had the grandfather's bow re-stringed and took it to the training grounds to test, she appeared to 'watch his prowess', as she put it, only to dare him to prove it elsewhere, as well, after a couple of shots. He got round to truly assessing the qualities of the weapon only the following day.

Smiling for himself, he caresses with his sight the elegant curve of the shaft, and then moves his eyes to yet another elegant curve, displayed as Astrid is still lying on her belly, not bothering to cover herself.

_I do like you, too, my fine horse-breeder._

Pondering what she has said before, Nathaniel frowns. "That plan of yours… You will definitely need a loan, a good Antivan stallion costs a fortune. Who would borrow you so much, for a business that will start to pay back in years?"

She gives him an impish, and rather self-satisfied grin. "Well, I don't think I'll have to go very far – not even outside the Keep."

He blinks. "You would apply with the Commander?"

"Why not? The Wardens do want only the best for them and theirs, and they usually don't wear all that heavy metal crap like knights do – which makes them perfect customers-to-be."

He probably looks unconvinced, since Astrid narrows her eyes. "Oh, I believe there is more than just one way to cook the fish… or persuade the Commander."

Nathaniel controls his expression a second too late, and Astrid starts chuckling again. "'Was just kidding. Don't worry, I'm not about to hop from your bed to his this instant – and he seems to prefer black-hairs, anyway."

That strikes a familiar chord: when high on booze, Oghren has several times mentioned a witch the Commander supposedly took to… a black-haired witch, though hair was quite low on the list of features the dwarf found of interest.

A slap on his flank brings him back. "Again the bow?" Astrid scolds him.

He quickly lets his eyes pass her bare form, and trails the outline of her throat and shoulder with his thumb. "Just pondering your assessment of the Commander's preferences."

"And?"

"Try asking Oghren if you dare, he seems inclined to spread gossip when drunk."

"Oh? There is a time when he is  _not_  drunk?"

Nathaniel laughs. "Well, the legend has it…"

Astrid laughs with him, and as she shifts, Nathaniel has to admire her finely shaped buttocks once again.

His attention does not go unnoticed. "Much better now. You know, that's yet another advantage of horseriding, keeps your ass firm."

She shifts again, and Nathaniel finds the curve of the ass and thigh she keeps displaying irresistible. Rising, he moves on the bed and places his lips lightly into the knee pit. Astrid squirms and giggles at his tickling breath, but as the touch intensifies, she gasps and clutches her hands at the furs and blankets.

Taking his time, he traverses with his mouth upwards, along the inner and rear side of the thigh, grazing the soft skin with his teeth every now and then, licking and sucking, while letting his hand caress the length of her leg. He adds his left hand, to slowly descend on the cheeks of her tight ass, but never really touching the juncture; only slowly teasing, until the hand and the mouth reach their destination at the same time, pushing her legs apart. Astrid's breath becomes ragged, issuing in soft moans:  _urging_ ,  _pleading_.

Nathaniel slides his hand under her belly. "Speaking of horses…" he mutters against that irresistible curve, placing a wet kiss there and trailing back.

"Horses…" Astrid's voice is hoarse; yet, as she rises on her knees and hands, she glances backwards, with her lips curled. "Well, you still do miss a bit for a horse… an inch or two, no more."

"Do I? Does my lady find me insufficient?" He thrusts his hips forward, to achieve the desired effect of Astrid gasping loudly, enveloping his length with her warmth.

"Quite the contrary," she admits, sounding suspiciously out of breath as he sets a rather fast pace. "I might want to take a closer look next time…"

"You are most welcome. You're an expert, after all."

Whatever Astrid may have meant to reply remains unsaid, as he shows his own expertise, leaning forward to brush his hand over her nipples.

Shaking his head to remove his loose hair from his eyes, Nathaniel abandons the conversation, to savour yet another precious moment.

' _A place somewhere, with people who like me and accept me.'_

It seems that he has found some of it, at least for the day.


	17. In the Shadow of Blackmarsh

The frozen snow crunches under their feet, still steaming where the darkspawn blood and bowels stained it.

Rapidly breathing, Nathaniel freezes still for a moment, reaching the Warden sense to reveal the yet living bearers of the Taint.

Feeling none, he turns to his companions for confirmation; after a series of curt nods, they make for the ruins of the estate.

The road runs between the damaged fences and barns: it seems that no human thing is safe from the darkspawn hatred. The bare maples seem untouched: before his inner eye, Nathaniel can still see them providing shadow on that summer day when father took him along to inspect his lands. Back then, the fields were alive with the sounds of scythes, calls and singing; cows and sheep added to the hustle, the clattering of the windmill…

No sound in the silence of death now, not even the crows.

As expected, the main building within the stockade is the site of the greatest destruction, and tragedy. They barely absorb the sight –the darkspawn passion for hanging and disembowelling left no-one and nothing intact – till the presence of the taint surges from behind the row of barns and sheds.

The ensuing fight is vicious but short.

Glancing over the desecrated bodies, Nathaniel wonders which one used to be the plump goodwife, who welcomed her Lord's son with strawberries and cream.

The belated revenge on her murderers is all he can offer in return.

In pairs, they quickly search the estate, returning to the Commander to confirm what everyone already knows: no survivors.

The lad who brought the plea for help on a foaming horse, is the only one, and Nathaniel is more than glad that it is not his duty to tell him that the help couldn't have made it in time. Knowing Ned Cousland, he is sure that the boy will at least be spared the grisly details.

Looking around, Anders is paler than the snow: for all his levity, the mage has a compassionate soul, and the sight of so much death takes a toll on him.

And so does on the Commander, though the brooding silence and the pressed lips are the only indication.

With the help of the soldiers assigned to guard their horses, they gather the remains into the building – humans in one, darkspawn in another – before they put torches to the thatched roofs.

Only fire can cleanse what darkspawn have defiled.

In the spring, the fields will have to be checked for corruption.

They leave in gloomy silence, hunching in the saddles against the chilly wind.

In silence they ride on, until, to Nathaniel's surprise, the Commander checks his horse and falls in step next to him. "Tell me, Nathaniel: what do you know of Blackmarsh?"

Puzzled by the question, Nathaniel shakes his head. "What everyone does, I suppose? One day, the place was thriving, the other, everyone was gone. They say it is haunted now and nobody in their right mind would go within ten miles of it."

A lopsided grin. "Any specification as to the nature of the hauntedness?"

"The usual stuff – the damned souls of those who vanished there. Strange sounds, strange lights…. Father used to say –" Realizing the lapse of his tongue, he feels blood rushing to his cheeks.

After a moment of intently watching the road, the Commander sighs and shrugs. "Go ahead. I do realize that… you have other memories of him. What did he tell you?"

_What did he tell?_

The man who used to be his father used to tell stories on winter evenings, when the early setting darkness drove the children to the light and warmth of the fireplace. Cradling little Delilah on his knees, with Thomas and Nathaniel leaning against his shins, father would tell all kinds of stories, changing his voice to fit different roles, or dropping it low to add to the mystery.

But that was a long time ago, when the children were very young, and as the time went on, he told stories less and less, until he ceased altogether.

Gulping to overcome a sudden tightness in his throat, Nathaniel concentrates on recalling the long-forgotten tales. "It was under the Orlesian rule. The town prospered from fishing and trade, and as a desirable fief, it fell to a baroness from Orlais. She was supposed to be a strikingly beautiful woman but of wicked and dark heart, who used the blood of young maidens to sustain her own beauty. One day, her sins finally prevailed and the demons took her away to the Fade."

"And the rest of the folk?"

Nathaniel shrugs. "If something mysterious did happen there, it would not be surprising if everyone got scared and left for good. Even more so if, as I presume, they murdered the baroness and fled to avoid repercussions."

"Outlaws do not tend to leave their earthly possessions behind."

Nathaniel bites his lip, realizing how the story went about dinner being left half-finished on the table, the plough and horses abandoned in the fields. He frowns. "So, you have heard the tales. You would actually believe it – I mean, the version about people simply… vanishing? Why?" Shifting uncomfortably in the saddle, he glances at Anders and Velanna over his shoulder. "What kind of magic would that be, then? Would such a thing be even possible?"

"Who's to tell?" the Commander replies complacently. "I've seen a man tie his life-force to a curse, and sustain both his life and the curse for centuries, long after those who had harmed his kin were already dead. Who knows which powers this baroness dabbled in and what she may have achieved?"

Were it another man, Nathaniel would dismiss the story as mere embellishment, but with Cousland, nothing is ever so simple. The sudden interest in forgotten histories provokes a sense of unease. "Are you suggesting that we should investigate what happened at Blackmarsh? I thought we had enough trouble on our hands with darkspawn alone, even without ghosts or demons or baronesses."

He receives a wry smile. "I'm catching at straws." Glancing back over his shoulder, at the pillar of the dark smoke against the darkening sky, Cousland's lips gain the hard set once more. "This cannot be allowed to continue, yet I have absolutely no clue what to do or where to go… except for this one which I considered totally improbable. I hoped that you might come up with something…" A sigh. "It seems we're for some more winter travels again."

Spurring the horse, the Commander returns to the front, leaving Nathaniel to ponder over the unappealing prospect, while yet another persistent thought keeps creeping in: ' _I've seen a man twist his life for the sake of vengeance…'_

Unwittingly, Nathaniel pulls his cloak closer: the memory of the older Cousland is even more chilling than the wind. It has been a fortnight since Astrid returned from Highever, indignant over being made to wait before the gate in the cold, only to be sent away without an answer.

Nathaniel never dared to ask her about the Commander's reaction to that, nor did he allow himself to ponder what Ned may have written to his brother.

No use to dwell on things he cannot change – be it the hatred of Fergus Cousland, or a winter trip to the land of haunting nightmares.

He was the one who made the choice to serve, after all.

Unsurprisingly, he is the only one to accept the prospect without rumbling, as turns out when the Wardens gather around the map, with cups of mulled wine to drive away the chill that has dwelt in their bones ever since the return from the Turnoble estate.

Even less unsurprisingly, Oghren is the first to voice his disapproval: "A sodding  _swamp_? That Kristoff of yours can't have been right in his head, I'm telling you! No dwarf with as much brains as nug shit would ever make an exit from the Deep Roads within a  _swamp_!  _How_  would you even dig a tunnel through bogey land, huh?"

"There  _are_  actually some hills in the area," Anders remarks, studying the painted landscape. "However, as the Commander has said, the attack pattern does not point to Blackmarsh as a centre. Based on the numbers of occurrences, I'd say they issue from somewhere here."

' _Somewhere_.' The mage's broad gesture encompasses all of central Amaranthine, give or take a couple of miles here and there.

"Kristoff could not draw on the information from the recent attacks," Ned Cousland points out. "Yet, even if his assessment of Blackmarsh was wrong, there must have been something he considered important enough to investigate. Perhaps he found a clue why the darkspawn haven't withdrawn underground… or why they started to talk. Or, that these reasons are, in fact, one and the same."

The reminder of their encounter with the Architect brings about an uneasy silence, affecting even Velanna, who up till then was looking out of the window, not even pretending interest.

Nathaniel quickly averts his eyes, so as not to draw her attention: the bad weather which confined them in the Keep brought Velanna's moods to daunting depths, and the fact that their first mission outside the Keep in weeks was not exactly successful, was of little help, as well.

Anders pokes at the pile of sketchy documents on the table. "I wish the guy left some more substantial notes. I agree with Oghren: what made him think that Blackmarsh had anything to do with darkspawn? Plus, how do you intend to find a single man in  _miles_  of empty countryside? A single  _dead_  man, if may I remind you?"

"Kristoff was a veteran," Varel remarks from where he is seated, somewhat aside from the Wardens. "He may have been belated for a reason."

"According to what that wench in the tavern said, he intended an approximately one-month trip," the Commander says softly, "and he's been gone well over three. After such a time, his chances would be slim at best. Truly, I do not expect to find him alive, or to find him at all. Yet, whatever research he was carrying out, we should at least try to follow. We will establish a base as close to Blackmarsh as possible – this…" he leans closer to the map, "… Narrowdale… should be a convenient spot. Thus, we could gradually make a thorough search of the area."

With a grunt of disdain, Oghren raises and empties his cup – ale, of course, not mere wine. "You may as well thoroughly search yer ass and find just the same piece of shit even without scrambling in a swamp, I'm tellin' ye. A complete waste of time."

Instead of being offended, the Commander actually flashes a grin at the dwarf. "Not  _complete_. Even if we don't find Kristoff or darkspawn, I'd still like to investigate this part of the arling and see if I could put it to some good use. I hear that Blackmarsh used to be a busy port once – and I am perfectly sure that our dear Bann Esmerelle will be  _thrilled_  at the prospect of competition for the docks of Amaranthine, should we manage to reopen it."

Nathaniel cannot help but feel his lips curve: the image of Esmerelle's reaction suddenly makes the winter travel somewhat more appealing. His improved mood quickly dissipates, though, as Oghren sputters the new share of his ale at the Commander's next words. "In  _two_  days? Damn it, you've been planning this all along?"

The smile he receives in answer urges him to sputter a line of colourful invectives, at which Ned Cousland raises a brow while pulling an innocent face: "What, you're gonna miss an appointment with a new supply of ale?"

_I am going to miss Astrid's return from Denerim. And she will not be pleased to miss a proper goodbye, that's for sure._

Shifting in the chair to suppress the sudden tension in his groin, Nathaniel eyes the map. The Commander is right, of course: the weather has become stable, with milder frost and a decent portion of sunshine, and a good chance of remaining so for a good couple of days. "Do we set out directly for Blackmarsh?"

The answer is not particularly surprising. Some things are too good to last: a truth Nathaniel has learned over the years, and so, two days later, he takes his place in the troop heading for Amaranthine.


	18. The Quality of Mercy

The high walls of Amaranthine stand out before them, the streams of smoke from the chimneys and cooking fires rising straight to the sky in the still, clear air.

Frowning, Ned Cousland briefly pauses his horse at the sight of the chaotic tangle of huts and provisional shelters, sprawling before the city gates and along the walls. "I thought I made clear that I wanted these people taken care of, "he remarks to no-one in particular, his face setting in an already familiar expression of concealed anger.

Though he shares the indignation, Nathaniel is somewhat less surprised: Esmerelle has never been known for charity. However, ignoring her liege's command is another thing, and far from insignificant.

_Not used to not having your way, right?_

_Esmerelle will_ love _the talk._

Passing through the refugee encampment, the Commander slows down, and Nathaniel holds little doubt that he is taking in every single detail: the haggard faces, the children wrapped up in rags, the people huddling around too few fires, burning too low… and none of the farm animals or dogs that still could be seen during the last visit of the city.

"My Lord! Give us food!"

A grey-haired woman, limping, falls to her knees right before the Commander's horse.

Their company, twenty men strong, pack horses and all, comes to a halt as Ned Cousland stops to speak to the woman… and as he does so, more and more gaunt faces gather closer and closer, with the same request: "Food! Give us food! Open the granaries!"

With a pang of unease, Nathaniel looks around: people are gathering from all directions, already half-blocking the road behind and before them.

"Food, my Lord… We are starving!"

More and more voices, their tones quickly changing from pleading to agitated.

_How could Esmerelle have let things come so far? Is she mad, to keep a starving crowd just before her gates? Even if she does not care for those people's needs, what about her common sense? How long before despair turns them into a mob and they start attacking merchants?_

And the mob there might be any second; a beast demanding food with its thousand voices… a beast that will respond with rage if its demands are ignored. Ned Cousland has to raise his own voice to be still heard: a trained voice, clear and melodic, proclaiming what the beast wants to hear:  _you will be cared for, you will be fed_.

For a moment, Nathaniel feels relief: this will soon be over. It will be a bitter pill for Esmerelle, to be forced to open her granaries.

Amaranthine is rich, she can well afford to feed these folks. With its port open all year long, those within her walls never have to face lack of supplies which money can buy. It will be only just if some of her riches spill over the walls to those in need.

The next moment, though, Nathaniel's stomach churns.

" _Don't trust the Commander_! His words are empty! He would have us all starve to death!"

A deep rumbling male voice, but Nathaniel cannot identify the speaker: a face between many in the crowd, and his shouts are already repeated elsewhere, and Ned Cousland stands up in the stirrups. "Do not slight the word of your liege! Disperse now, and receive your grain when you have gathered in peace!"

However, the steely voice and the warning it delivers still fall on deaf ears, and the pleas for food are becoming subdued with protests and insults.

 _You cannot convince those who do not wish to be convinced_ , Nathaniel realizes, his heart sinking even lower as he notices men gesturing and signalling at each other _. Inciters. Great Maker, there are inciters among the crowd_.

_The mob._

A quick look around reveals that the soldiers have already drawn closer, gripping their sword hilts; sergeant Kenneth watches the mob with squinted eyes. Velanna slowly turns her head around, like a wolf scenting…

_Blood._

_This will end in a bloodbath._

Mere splits of seconds are separating them from the moment when the Commander's voice finally drowns in the angered roar and the mob moves on them –

– or when his raised hand comes down in a gesture signalling attack –

Nathaniel is beginning to feel nauseous:  _these are common folks, starving and desperate, not deserving to be stricken down because someone has taken advantage of their needs –_

–  _someone has taken –_

A frantic look around:  _every single hut may already be hiding bowmen –_

His own bow, disassembled for the travel, rests within its case on his back, but could as well be miles away: it is too long to be used on horseback.

_Helpless._

Anders, soundlessly moving his lips and making small gestures with his hands, is apparently already preparing for the worst, yet Nathaniel has no clue what he intends to unleash.

The time slows down, like a fly trapped in honey.

Ned Cousland is still attempting to bind the people to his will, not realizing that his attempt is doomed from the beginning.

–  _still no bowmen to be seen, but this means nothing, anyone can be hiding behind the walls of bodies obscuring sight, with the string already being drawn, and Ned is not wearing a helmet –_

"This is staged! Look out, Commander, this is staged!"

His shout brings about a momentary pause, promptly filled with Cousland's voice: " _Disperse now while you still live_!"

The quiet lingers a second longer, like a breath held before plunging into deep waters, and then, the havoc starts.

A deafening mixture of roars and screams, as those pushing forward mercilessly shove those trying to retreat. A swirl of chestnut fur, as Wolf springs at the man trying to grab hold of the Commander's reins; the drawn blade flashes, striking down another, but remaining clear of blood. "… them! Stay your hands and make for – "

The rest of the command is lost in the uproar, even as Nathaniel draws his own blade and spurs his horse, forcing those in his way to spring aside, or be trampled.

An opening appears: Velanna's spell buffets the men a few feet back. Roars become screams, as the people start to panic, seeing the crackling lightnings dance along the elf's raised hands.

"Don't kill them, Velanna!" Nathaniel yells but there is no telling if she has heard him or not.

Something hits him hard between the shoulder blades but the layers of clothes and armour ease the impact. Two men appear by his side, swinging clubs; Nathaniel kicks one in the face and strikes the other with the pommel of his shortsword. A stone flies past him as he leans back in the saddle to avoid the hook of a halberd, and grabbing hold of the shaft, he shoves its wielder away.

"The gate! Make for the gate!" Cousland raises his horse on its hinds, turning around; the people frantically push out of his way to get from the reach of the beating hooves. There is blood trickling from his forehead, and the horse neighs in pain as more stones come from various directions.

Only when he feels a sudden clunk in his ears, Nathaniel realizes that the clear sky has become overcast; the air has chilled to the point when breathing becomes painful. Taken aback, people cease in what they have been doing…

The wind strikes with the force of a hammer, and a deafening wail. Nathaniel desperately clutches the reins, bowing low to the horse's neck to protect his face against the pricking crystals of ice. The horse neighs in panic; with luck, rather than skill, Nathaniel brings it to dart forward,  _somewhere_  – hopefully, out of the unnatural storm. He feels the hooves trample over something soft more than once; the ice quickly envelopes the horse's mane, the reins, his gloved hands; his face burns and he can no longer see where he is heading.

The change from the blizzard into a sunny winter day comes between two steps; the air suddenly feels warm by comparison.

The horse, snorting, makes a few more steps towards the gate where Ned Cousland just brings his own horse to a stop.

Turning, Nathaniel watches in disbelief the dark whirling cloud, hanging over the road, and the figures, ice-covered, staggering out of it, crawling to safety. A horseman, two, three… Oghren on his pony, mightily cursing and breaking away the icicles from his beard; Anders and two more soldiers sticking close to him, all three free of ice, except for the tail of the rear horse. Kenneth, the snow on his moustache coloured red with the blood from his broken nose.

Gradually, all of the company gather around Ned Cousland, who, moveless like a stone, never averts his eyes from the slowly dissipating cloud; never even wavers when Wolf, whining, finally makes it out.

No-one pays attention to them: in the face of the sudden disaster, their existence is entirely forgotten.

With a loud whoosh, the cloud disappears as if it never existed, revealing Velanna, sitting on her horse within its former centre, without even as much as a ruffled hair.

Finally, the Commander moves, dropping his gaze to the ice-covered forms, lying here and there on the ground: way too many. Some of them are beginning to move, more, rather than less, not. His breath becomes ragged.

The shelters closest to the road have become a heap of debris, entrapping those within. Somewhere among the huts, a child has begun to wail; more cries, calling for help, moaning, sobbing.

Velanna approaches them with a disinterested expression, which turns into puzzlement as she feels the hard looks on her. "What? You wanted them dispersed without much killing, or not?"

"You bloody nearly killed  _us_!" one of the soldiers yells, his voice breaking. "You knife-ear bitch!"

Velanna's face contorts in an expression Nathaniel has not seen yet, while her hands start to simmer in a blue glow he already knows.

" _Enough._ "

It must have been Cousland who has spoken, since it is him Velanna looks at, but in a voice not resembling his own. The frozen blood on his face is slowly beginning to trickle again. He nudges his horse, until it comes head to head with the elf's. "Look back," he says softly. " _Look back_."

Perplexed, Velanna does: at those few refugees daring to come so close as to help the injured hobble to the dubious safety of their shelters, and to carry away those who do not move. None dare for more than a dark glance towards their company, standing still before the gate.

The mob is dispersed. Broken.

Some women begin to wail over their destroyed homes; yet another falls on her knees next to one of the bodies covered with ice, a pitiably small one.

"Look. Look at your doing." Cousland's voice still doesn't sound right; as if his lips were dumb from the cold. "Next time you unleash something like this without my order…  _I will personally cut off that reckless head of yours_."

Velanna stares at him with her eyes open wide and her jaw dropped, but before she can muster a reply, there is a commotion at the gate.

"Commander…" Belatedly, the city watch arrives. Their leader, a tall man with soldierly bearing, stares at the destruction before them. "What has happened? I was informed there was a situation here, but…"

"The situation has been dealt with," Cousland replies curtly. "Good that you have arrived, nonetheless, I would have a word with you. Tell me, Constable Aidan:  _why are these people still here_?"

Nathaniel has to give it to the man that he does not cow from the Commander, nor pretends not to understand. He barely hesitates when he looks up to meet Cousland's eyes: a cold, hard stare. "I was under the impression that your orders changed. Was I wrong?"

The silence takes impossibly long. Ned sits moveless, only two red spots colouring his cheeks revealing that he has heard the Constable's answer. "What did you say?" he asks finally, and dangerously.

The man does not as much as blink. "When I started making arrangements to take the refugees in, I was promptly informed that I was acting outside my authority and that the Bann would see to it herself, according to your orders. When nothing happened, rumours started to circulate that you prevented her from acting on behalf of those poor folks."

Even longer silence, when the two men stare into each other's eye, unwavering. "No," the Commander says at last, his tone unnaturally flat. "This must have been… some misunderstanding. My order still holds, and since I will be staying for a couple of days, you will be acting under my direct authority. Start moving those people in right now…" his voice falters a little as he looks again at the destruction, "and make a list of those who have been injured or lost a family member. They will be compensated."

The cold blue stare softens considerably, and when the Constable bows, it is slightly lower than necessary. "As you command, my Lord. Shall I inform Bann Esmerelle?"

"No. I will speak to the Bann myself. Should there be an issue, just refer to my orders and report to me."

When the Constable departs, they remain before the gate a little longer, until Anders clears his throat. "Well, shall we enter the viper's nest already?"

Glancing from the destruction to the empty pikes above the gate, Ned Cousland slowly nods and nudges his horse forward into the city.

Passing under the pikes, Nathaniel also looks up:  _Esmerelle's head would look magnificent there. May the Maker fulfil our wishes._

_Though, the problem with Him is that he only rarely listens._


	19. Mind War

The music is soft and unobtrusive, the servants skilful and attentive. The food is delicious, the cups of exquisite Orlesian glass, the wine the best Starkhaven brand, though somewhat too rich for Nathaniel's liking.

Nothing in the room is to his liking, in fact, and their hostess, beaming with smiles and glittering with gold and emeralds at the head of the table, the least of all.

" _You would actually accept? Dine with that – that viper who nearly got us all killed?" Anders is not the only one to express his disbelief, only the fastest, as usually._

_The answer comes with that little innocent smile Ned Cousland uses to soothe his opponents. "Why not? Whatever I think of the said viper, she is no fool. Her house is probably the safest place under the sun right now. She has much and more to fear if she makes a mistake, and once we have eaten of her bread and salt, she won't take any risk that we might come to harm under her roof._

" _But she wants you dead!"_

" _Wishful thinking hasn't achieved the effect so far. – That said, do take care, though. There's no reason to give the viper a chance."_

Taking a small sip of his wine, Nathaniel inconspicuously touches the bracelet tightly fitting to his wrist under the sleeve. The runestone remains as cold as before, throughout the whole dinner. No poison in the cups today, but the food and drink still stick in his throat.

_What are you up to?_

After Esmerelle expressed the necessary consternation at the dramatic circumstances of the Commander's arrival in Amaranthine –  _horrible, my Lord, truly horrible what we face these days_  – she switched to smalltalk: easily flowing and meaningless, exactly the sort which makes for a good atmosphere at feasts.

And Ned Cousland, being the social charmer he is, seems to be gladly contributing.

Nathaniel himself rather welcomes the opportunity to remain silent and watchful, while Esmerelle's cronies participate to the extent their wits allow them: not much, in the case of Ser Timothy. Seated next to Nathaniel, the man's constant nodding constitutes a good excuse why Nathaniel doesn't have to participate. The remaining two, Ser Tamra and Ser Temmerly, seated opposite, each carefully bid their chance to quip in and earn themselves recognition.

Tamra and Temmerly. Despite the resemblance in their names, the contrast between the two is particularly enhanced as they sit side by side. Tamra is slender and elegant, almost attractive, with her glossy blonde hair and green eyes, but a face a wee bit narrow. Temmerly is a bulk of a man: broad shoulders, broad face… even with his height, which far exceeds the average, he is simply… broad.

_Little wonder he is called The Ox._

_The Ox and the Weasel._

Every now and then, Nathaniel sees Tamra's eyes shoot quick glances around, keeping her lips shut tightly between her turns, as if to prevent a secret from escaping.

More often than not, these glances are directed at the Commander… or Nathaniel himself: a fact that he finds somewhat disturbing, together with the way Tamra tugs at her napkin or sleeves every now and then whenever her attention is directed elsewhere.

_Nervous. The woman is nervous, though she is trying to conceal it._

Apart from that, she also twitches whenever Oghren produces a belch.

" _That ain't a good idea, Commander." Oghren, uncharacteristically uneasy, shuffles his feet. "I, er, well… give me a good measure of ale and a chunk of somethin' to bite on, but them noble feasts… Don't wanna cause trouble, Commander."_

" _Trouble?" Ned raises his brows. "You? I'm sure our good Bann will show understanding for the dwarves' different habits at the table. Just, don't comment on the qualities of her bosom or other parts, like you did to Wynne, otherwise you need not restrain yourself at all. In fact, I don't even_ want _you to, and I'm sure neither would Esmerelle herself. You're a guest, so just be yourself."_

As it seems, Oghren has taken up fulfilling the command to the letter: belching, gurgling, occasionally roaring with laughter at a joke only himself seems to understand, much to the dismay of the rest of Esmerelle's household, seated at the lower end of the table. The dwarf has apparently come to enjoy his role, especially as Anders remains somewhat reticent for this once, and Oghren rules the field.

Unlike the mage, Nathaniel makes sure that his own face remains perfectly undisturbed whenever Oghren breaches on the etiquette.

The way the muscle on Esmerelle's jaw tightens ever so slightly at each such occasion is almost endearing.

_Stewing in your own fury, are we?_

_I just hope you didn't serve the same vintage all around the table – given the pace at which Oghren is emptying his cups, he is nicely drinking through your supplies._

_Besides, there's a good chance that he'll throw on the table, or on that pretty Orlaisian carpet._

For all her annoyance, though, it seems that Esmerelle has found the time ripe to pursue her main interest: the conversation has returned to the events at the gate.

"A shame, my Lord, truly a shame." Esmerelle places her hand above her heart. "Even more so that the fault is partly with me, I must confess…" A sigh, and fluttering of lashes. "With full trust, I placed the responsibility for taking care of the refugees in Constable Aidan's hands, and despite his previous achievements, the man has failed me most miserably."

' _Lying through your teeth, milady._ When it comes to putting weight in either Esmerelle's or Constable's words, Nathaniel has no doubt where the truth lies.  _Pretty white teeth, for a woman of your age, but lying nonetheless._

_A fist in those teeth would do._

The Commander keeps nodding most sympathetically to her detailed account of her troubles with Constable Aidan, and finally, Esmerelle puts her small hand on his sleeve. "I was so sorry to hear you were injured, my Lord… it was a complete failure on Aidan's part that he was unable to ensure the safety of our liege. I assure you this will not happen again. My word has its weight in the city council and I will have the man removed at once."

Nathaniel would almost clap her.  _Plotting against the Commander_ and _removing the man who was a pain in the ass for your little smuggling friends and for yourself in one move. Splendid, milady. Did you figure out that it was Aidan who turned the Commander's attention towards that lot of yours?_

Ned produces one of those charming smiles of his and leaning towards her, he places his hand over the Banns. "By no means, milady."

Once, Nathaniel watched a fat self-confident cat walk across the yard to grab hold of an unwary chick, only to have its prey snatched away by a falcon suddenly stooping from the height. The cat's expression then remarkably resembled Esmerelle's.

"Dear Lady." The Commander's voice is brimming with sympathy. "By having Aidan removed, you would admit that you were at fault yourself. The man is well respected in Amaranthine but it is widely understood that he does not act under his own authority in this. If you intervened, you would be perceived as looking for a scapegoat, and I will not have your name besmirched. Surely, our good Constable did not perform in his task as well as I would have expected, so I assume he could use some support in his uneasy position. I have already made the necessary arrangements with the city council, to establish a fund for sheltering the refugees, as well as raising the city guard's wages to allow Aidan to expand their ranks. – No, do not thank me," he stops the Bann as she opens her mouth, "I know you were going to do the same once you learned how critical the situation has become. I have promised the Council your full support and that you will supply half the funding, as your gentle heart beckons you." Taking Esmerelle's hands, he brings it to his lips. "Thank you, milady."

Nathaniel does not laugh, though he'd much want to. He does not even snicker, only raises his cup in a silent toast to Esmerelle. His gesture is immediately taken up by the Commander. "To the Bann!"

Esmerelle's blush thus can be attributed to the praise. The twitch of her mouth when Oghren finishes the toast with a loud gurgle, seems almost natural. So does her silence, when the Commander takes to entertain the company with the latest court gossip. Resting her chin on her entwined fingers, she watches him with a properly pleased expression of a vassal who has just been praised by her liege.

Yet, it seems to Nathaniel that every now and then, another expression appears behind the smiling mask.

 _The cat has pawed at a chick, and found out it was a falcon_. He takes another sip of his wine, watching the Bann over the brim of the cup.  _Could she really have made such a mistake?_

Looking at Ned, smiling and nonchalantly leaning in his chair, Nathaniel realizes that she probably did.

 _An average young man, far from formidable to look at… quite the contrary, in fact_. Nathaniel's memory of Teyrna Eleanor is rather vague, yet he is quite sure that her son's fine features reflect her face rather than Bryce's, though devoid of the striking beauty that she possessed.  _If it weren't for a scar or two and a certain gauntness of the cheeks, the Hero of Ferelden might easily be labelled as_ cute.

_Especially when he is smiling like that._

_A social charmer proficient with his sword. Did she really think that this was all there was to him?_

_After all, she never saw that seemingly harmless face changed with determination… never saw a violent emotion in it, held back by the will of steel._

_The man who defied – and defeated – Loghain, built an army from scrap and put his sword through the Archdemon's skull._

_It seems, milady, that you spent the war safely behind your walls and never fully realized what impossible odds he had to overcome to get where he is now. You tried to bite, and he bit back where it hurts you most. Consider this a fair warning, you won't be getting another. Step back and keep low… because if you stick out that scheming head of yours too far, he'll cut it off without hesitation._

Then, a belated realization dawns on him.  _But why scheme against Cousland at all? What do you expect to gain?_

In frustration over his own folly, Nathaniel barely stops himself from gritting his teeth aloud. The years-long dislike of Esmerelle clouded his reason: he gladly jumped at the subtle leads to her person, and never stopped to consider her motives.

_Truly, why? Will the blow to her purse cow her, or only fuel her determination?_

Racking his brain over their encounters, he has to admit that he has no clue.

As if drawn by his thoughts, Esmerelle smiles at him and leans to address him, the first time since they were seated, while the Commander is engaged in conversation with Ser Temmerly. "I had a full report of what transpired at the gate. You acted most bravely, Nathaniel. If it weren't for your intervention…"

Nathaniel is already becoming tired of the farce, and religion has always been a convenient resort. "The Maker placed me where I could be of best use," he retorts. "Him be praised, not me."

"He placed you, but the effort was yours. You needn't have acted the way you did."

 _Eat it, viper. I won't be dancing to your tune_. "But of course I had to, milady. Couslands are somewhat rare these days, and I won't have their ranks diminished any further than Father already did."  _May he rot in the Fade for that_.

Esmerelle's eyes are cold like her emeralds, as if she could sense what remained unsaid. "The Commander is lucky then to have you by his side," she concludes before she turns to Ser Timothy on her left. "Maker watch over you both."


	20. Rumours, Bargains and Lies

As they enter, they are welcomed by noise and the overpowering odour of ale, sweat and smoke: The Crown and Lion is crowded tonight. Anders wrinkles his nose but Nathaniel, in fact, feels that the air in the tavern is cleaner than at Esmerelle's mansion.

"Some good brandy or rum would do my innards fine," Oghren assesses, "all that wine is no good, it just makes one piss like a freaked nug."

The Commander laughs and heads for the table occupied by Kenneth's men, currently washing down their supper. "For once, I am inclined to agree with you. A drink will do."

So is Nathaniel: washing away the aftertaste that the visit at Esmerelle's has left in his mouth seems… desirable. Even the worst swill would taste fine now.

The soldiers squeeze closer to make them space at one end of the table, and Anders suggests: "I believe we do deserve some fine stuff after that ordeal. I'll arrange with our dear Sorsha to bring us some of their finest reserve. Shall I tell her to fetch something to eat, as well?"

The Warden appetite, not particularly satisfied with the overly civilized dinner, prompts an agreement from all three of them. The blonde mage grins and skilfully makes his way between the tables to hug the serving elven wench. Twisting his mouth, Nathaniel meets Cousland's eyes: the Commander only shakes his head. Apparently, the mage will never change: never fails to make an advance whenever there is a female around.

Soon enough, Anders is back, bringing an already uncorked bottle and four cups. "Hmmm…" he sniffs at the bottleneck, "I'm almost tempted to keep this one for myself."

As soon as Anders pours the cups, Oghren promptly empties his share and gurgles contentedly. "Now, that's what I call a good drink, and good measure. Get me some more, blondie!"

Anders complies, and then with a smirk pushes Nathaniel's and Commander's cups closer to them. "I suggest you drink yours fast, Oghren seems to have developed an appetite."

The dwarf roars with laughter. "So we'll get another bottle, what's the deal! This is a bloody tavern, there ain't just one bottle around!"

The whole table laughs with him, and Nathaniel takes his cup. The aroma itself already evokes the feeling of the heat descending to his stomach: quite welcome after the walk in the cold. He is about to take a small sip, since he is definitely not going to follow Oghren's example, when he feels Anders' eyes on him.

Intent, expectant eyes.

Something, a vague notion, a distant memory, rings a bell in his head.

Nathaniel Howe would not be where he is, if he ever ignored such bells.

And so he smoothly finishes the move, dipping his lips but not letting past them a single drop. Pretending to swallow, he smiles at Anders, holding the cup in a way that makes it impossible to see how much is left within. "Fine stuff, really."

_An uncorked bottle. Why?_

The urge to touch the bracelet is almost irresistible but the runes remain cold.

"Fine stuff? So why ye're licking it like maid's tits? See how it's done!" Oghren downs the content of his cup and nods at Anders to pour him another.

Meanwhile, Nathaniel empties his own cup on the floor, as inadvertently as he used to in the Marches when his fellow squires were trying to get one another drunk, and raises it to his lips afterwards, mimicking Oghren's gesture.

_That 'old acquaintance' who came to see him in the inn but he wouldn't tell what it was about: a coincidence?_

_What's going on here? Is he trying to get us drunk? Or worse?_

As he puts the cup down, he meets Cousland's eyes again; a slight wrinkle is formed between his brows.

"That's how it's done! And now you, Commander!" Oghren yells excitedly, drawing attention to himself and Cousland.

' _Don't_ ,' Nathaniel gestures.

The dark eyes slightly narrow and then Cousland laughs. "It's absolutely barbaric to down fine rum like that!"

"It's absolutely the only way!" Oghren protests, and the ensuing debate over the proper ways of imbibing alcohol is interrupted only when Sorsha arrives with a big portion of roasted beef.

Somehow in the commotion, the Commander's cup also gets emptied, and when Anders is about to pour another, he is refused. "I've had enough for today. Don't forget that we're leaving early tomorrow."

The mage shrugs, and immediately pours at least Nathaniel's cup before he has a chance to say no. "And down with it!"

Nathaniel mentally shrugs and performs the same farce as before.

Once the bottle is empty, Oghren rumbles a little over not being allowed another, and then starts yawning.

For a good measure, since he still feels Anders' inquisitive look every now and then, Nathaniel presents a stifled yawn.

"Get to your bed, Oghren, before you drop off at the table," Cousland says. "It has been a long day. You also look as if you could use some sleep, Nathaniel. Good night."

"I think I will also retire." Anders performs a complicated bow. "Morning is not far, and it will be a dawn of a brilliant new day."

As could be expected, Oghren falls asleep as soon as he drops on his bed in the room the three of them share.

Nathaniel takes his time to prepare for bed, feeling acutely that he is being watched while Anders pretends to be reading a book by a candle.

_Will he be taken in?_

Oghren's soft snoring makes the pretence of sleep easier.

The floor creaks. "Nathaniel?"

Concentrating on breathing regularly, he does his best to seem sound asleep. Keeping his body relaxed, knowing that Anders is leaning over him, is a true test of patience.

Finally, the floor creaks again.

Some more creaking, and a gush of cold air: the window is being open.

A few heartbeats later, Nathaniel opens his eyes by a slit: the outline of Anders' head and shoulders lingers in the window frame, and then disappears.

As soon as he hears the sound of impact in the street below, Nathaniel throws away the blanket and softly rushes to the window. Keeping out of sight, he peeps outside just in time to see the mage turn round the corner.

Still barefoot, he darts from the room and knocks on Cousland's door.

The Commander is fully awake – fully armed, and armoured.

"He's gone," Nathaniel reports. "Oghren is asleep."

A nod. "Go get your armour, I'll fetch Velanna. I don't like this in the least. He wouldn't need to leave in this way if he went just whoring."

Outside, the night is crisp and frosty. "Look out," the Commander whispers. "I'm sure the inn is being watched. If you spot a tail, Nathaniel, let me know." Kneeling, he takes Wolf's head in his hands. "Find Anders."

With a soft bark, the dog runs along the silent street. Only a few windows are still lit: the citizens of Amaranthine are comfortably slumbering in the warmth of their homes.

_Except for those who are kept awake by their scheming._

Keeping alert, Nathaniel is almost sure they are not being followed; however, if Anders was, they might still run into trouble.

_Not to mention what he is up to._

The thought of Anders' betrayal makes him uneasy: somehow, he doesn't think the mage has it in him. He is rather surprised, in fact, how much he actually resents the idea; even more so that the initial suspicion gives way to fear for the blonde mage.

_Damn it. Rushing to save one chatterbox of a mage out of trouble. What a hilarious prospect._

As they hurry on, Velanna is apparently feeling uncomfortable, as well, though her sour expression might simply be attributed to the late night stroll. When they finally stop before a weather-worn door of an apparently derelict house, she folds her arms on her chest and taps her foot impatiently. "Well, what are we waiting for?" she hisses as Nathaniel returns from a survey to report that one of the back rooms is dimly lit. "Let's find what the fool is up to and get back to our beds!"

"All in its time," Cousland replies, getting his sword ready. "I want a quiet break-in before we find out what kind of trouble is inside. Nathaniel, would you?"

The door is not locked, yet Cousland was right again. Nathaniel is not particularly surprised to find Anders deep in trouble, engaged in a rather one-sided exchange with Templars – held by two, punched by a third, while the fourth, a woman with an officer's insignia, is watching with a look of satisfaction.

Too absorbed in their sport, the Templars notice their presence only when Cousland steps into the room, holding his sword rather leisurely with its tip down. "Look what we have here… I haven't seen you in a while, Knight – Lieutenant Rylock. Now that you have had your fun, be so kind and unhand my man at once."

A moment of stunned silence, except for Anders' pained gasps. The woman, Rylock, turns pale with wrath and looks at him defiantly. "We have arrested an accounted maleficar and murderer! The Chantry authority has precedence in these matters!"

"The man you have  _restricted and maltreated_  is a Warden. Once a Warden, everyone's crimes are erased, and the Wardens have the sole authority over their own."

The Templar's eyes narrow. "Wardens! Nothing else but a cover-up for a nest of apostates and maleficars! High time someone put an end to this!"

"Not this once, and not with this Warden, I'm afraid. Release him  _now_."

Rylock seems oblivious to the concealed threat, but Nathaniel notices that the two Templars holding Anders exchange worried looks.

The Templar grips the hilt of her sword. "This  _maleficar_  is the prisoner of the Chantry. Step aside!"

Maintaining the deceivingly leisured posture, Ned Cousland tilts his head and snorts derisively. "You are actually commanding  _me_? Now, aren't you a bit too bold for a woman whose head is only loosely attached to her shoulders?"

Her face sports two red spots on the cheeks. "I am the arm of the Chantry! Are you threatening me?"

"Threatening?" The amusement in Ned's voice is suddenly gone. "No, Rylock, I'm not  _threatening_  you: I'm charging you with treason."

The sudden twist leaves the woman gaping, speechless, while the Commander steps closer. "You are actively compromising the ranks of the Wardens at the time when the arling is endangered by darkspawn incursion. Hampering the defence of the land falls into the category of treason. That is a capital offence." The first time he has stepped into the room, he looks briefly at the other three Templars. "I do hope your commanding officer took care to brief you in this little detail before she engaged you in a criminal activity. The fact that you were under her command constitutes no excuse, you know."

"This is nonsense!" Rylock hisses angrily, though she does hesitate for an instant. "The Templars are answerable only to the Chantry, you have no authority over us!"

"That is true enough," the Commander admits, somewhat saddened. "However… tell me this, Rylock: if I should request your heads…  _who would deny me_?" His voice suddenly snaps like a crack of the whip. " _Who_  would deny me, Rylock? The Revered Mother of Amaranthine, whose Chantry may greatly benefit from her Arl's goodwill? The Knight Commander Rylien, who certainly cannot risk to find herself on the wrong side with the said Mother, not to mention the other Knight Commanders, like Greagoir or Tavish? Or the Grand Cleric herself, who was so often a guest at the royal table when I was the King's chief councillor? Who would  _dare_  to deny me, what say you?"

He makes another step forward. Rylock's eyes swerve; her underlings look alarmed. Limp in the grip of gauntleted hands, Anders slowly raises his head, his eyes glowing with hatred. Rylock's hand, tightly gripping the hilt, moves by half an inch.

_Maker, this is going to get tough…_

"Oh, come off it, Rylock!" Ned's voice is dripping with contempt, and superiority. "Do you honestly think you would leave this room alive if you dared lay your hands on me? I have my men outside, waiting only for a signal to put an end to this farce." He tilts his head again. "Step down, Rylock. Leave my man, and I will… put aside… this misunderstanding. You have had your revenge, Anders has had his lesson, no-one needs to die here. Not even you."

The Templar who had been beating Anders shuffles and looks pleadingly at his commanding officer. Rylock does not respond, but the expression in her face slowly turns from one of pride and anger into fear. She is a tall woman, and broad-shouldered, after the years of practice in heavy gear; yet, she seems to be shrinking and actually smaller as she submits to Cousland's will. Bowing her head, she takes a step back. "I – I apologize… my Lord. I, uh, we…" almost even before she gestures, the Templars let go of Anders as if he were of red-hot iron. The mage staggers but manages to remain standing.

Cousland takes his time before he nods to them graciously. "You are pardoned. You may go now. And never try to cross me again."

As they pass by him to the door, Nathaniel half-expects some treachery, some foolish desperate attempt, but no – intimidated, the Templars leave with their tails between their legs. Yet, he partially relaxes and lets the acid flagon slip back into its pouch only when the heavy steps fade outside.

Not so the Commander, however: in contrast to the previous ease, he seems tensed as he looks at Anders, who is cautiously straightening, feeling his ribs.

A rather unkind look, Nathaniel notices, if not right away furious.

"Explain yourself," Ned says very softly.  _Menacingly_.

The mage presents an apologetic grin. "I had some personal business to attend –"

With one sweeping move, the Commander crosses the floor and grabbing the mage by the coat on his chest, slams him against the wall. Ignoring the cry of pain, he nears his face next to Anders'.

"You tried to drug me and my men, you sneaked out alone even though I forbade that, you got me in a situation that might have ended in bloodshed and cause immense political problems, and you would feed me with stories of "personal business"?

This time, the answer comes in a rather small voice. "A friend told me the Circle phylacteries were transported here for safekeeping… so I wanted to retrieve mine."

Nathaniel has no clue what a phylactery is but Ned apparently does, and frowns. "Your phylactery?  _Here_? Couldn't you see that this was apparently a lie, a trap? And why didn't you tell me in the first place? What would you be doing, had Nathaniel not started suspecting that you had messed with our drinks? Really, Anders, what have you been  _thinking_?"

Despite the reprimand, the mage looks straight in his eye. "You have no idea what it is like to live enslaved your entire life."

After a moment, Ned slowly nods. He lets go of Anders' clothes. "I may not," he admits, "but as it seems, you have no idea what it could take being caught."

Touching his cut lip, Anders smirks. "Well, I've been caught six times, so I guess I do."

"You don't. Pray to the Maker you never will. Don't forget that they hold you for a murderer now. Do you think they would hesitate to – to put you under duress –" Turning his head away abruptly, he asks: "What was it you put in our drinks, by the way, and why didn't the runestones show?"

"'Cause it was a harmless substance, just for good sound sleep. I'd never harm you intentionally, I hope you know that!"

"Best make sure next time to prevent unintentional harm, as well. Would you care to give a thought how I would explain four dead Templars? – Because, I do hope that you are not such a moron to think that our departure from the inn went unnoticed, and right now there is at least one of Esmerelle's cronies outside wondering very much what we are doing here, if nothing worse."

_Right. No secret dumping the bodies, since this is ammunition we really don't want the viper to have._

Ned takes a deep breath. "Alright. Let's get out of here before – " He pauses, half raising his hand to his face, then quickly lowers it again, as it visibly shakes. "No. Nathaniel, go check we won't walk into an ambush."

Anders looks puzzled for a moment before he catches up with reality. "Wait, you've said – you actually  _don't_  have Kenneth's men outside?"

"No, I don't," Ned snaps. "Or do you think I keep them ready at a second's notice to parade in the streets whenever my mage gets cranky in the head?"

Anders gulps as the odds of fighting four heavily armoured Templars in the close quarters dawn on him. "But, we would have won, wouldn't we?" he attempts with a shade of a confident grin.

"Most probably, yes, since I'm not so stupid as to play fair in such circumstances, but the risk would still be great. Now, would you finally shut up, Anders? I need to think. Velanna, tend to him so that he can move fast. – Nathaniel, what are you waiting for?"

Hurrying to the front room, Nathaniel allows himself to make a face.  _'Think'? Rather, 'shut up before I throttle you'._

The street outside seems as quiet as before, and though Nathaniel watches for ages before he dares to peep out, he cannot account for anything suspicious. Reason tells him that the Templars never expected trouble and certainly weren't in the shape to try an ambush, while Esmerelle's spies didn't have the time to prepare one; yet, he feels as if at the point of an arrow.

As they issue back into the dark street, their small group sticks closely together; Ned's uncharacteristic nervousness affecting them all.

Unsurprisingly then, when Wolf suddenly growls and there is a movement behind a pile of crates in a side alley, the blades flash out and Velanna almost sends there a bolt, restraining herself only at the last moment.

A cat, a scrawny little tabby, filthy in a most un-cat-like manner as it has just crawled through Maker knows what, hisses in their direction, but as neither of them moves and the dog is restrained by the Commander's firm grip of his collar, it yawns and with spectacular disinterest, starts to lick its fur clean.

After an exchange of embarrassed glances, the Commander is the first to start laughing, with apparent relief. The cat raises its head warily for a moment and watches them with curiosity, before it decides they are no longer worth its attention. Wolf, probably offended by the lack of respect, turns his head away in a demonstration of haughty superiority.

Cousland looks from the dog to the cat, and then to Anders. "Didn't you say that you had a cat in the Tower?"

Anders gapes at him, then at the cat. "Er, you mean…?"

"Well, why not? It's not exactly what you came for, but it would be at least some gain in that misadventure of yours. Are you not interested?"

"But… it's filthy! And flea-ridden, I guess.."

"I'm sure you'll get on splendidly," Cousland smirks. "So? What are you waiting for?

Anders replies with a colourful invective but his eyes never leave the cat. Making a few cautious steps closer, he kneels and starts to lure the animal to him.

To Nathaniel's utter shock, it comes. His shock is matched only by that of the innkeeper when the guests who went safely upstairs in the evening suddenly appear at the door in the middle of the night, requesting soap and a bucket of warm water and a bowl of milk.

Up in their room, with Oghren still snoring, the mage shows quite some talent in the selection of spells useful to handle a cat washing, and not much later, their newest addition has overcome the exposition to the first bath in its cat's life, and purrs on Anders' lap, being scratched to the lulling rhythm of the mage's flow of speech: "…he was a wonderful cat, you know. No Templar could ever catch him, and no Templar's ham was ever safe from him. He grew and grew, and preyed on their supplies, until one day he became an abomination. He killed three Templars before they got him, brave little beast…"

The cat's purring changes its tone, and Anders hastily assures it: "But of course you would do even better! You would pounce at them with vengeance and get at least four, yes. Now, who's the pretty kitty here? You are, of course!"

The purring gains a slow, peaceful rhythm again, as the cat is apparently about to fall asleep. So is Nathaniel, curled under his blanket and with a pillow over his ear, since the combination of Oghren, Anders and the cat deters sleep even at this late hour. His last conscious thought is pondering whether this cat might turn out as vicious as one he used to know in the Marches and which invariably fouled someone's boots.

Being a Warden truly involves many unexpected aspects.


	21. Passing Through Amaranthine

The night outside is bright and chilly, the stars already twinkle in the black firmament. The visit has taken longer than Nathaniel expected but he considers every minute well spent. The warmth of Delilah's smile keeps him warm even now, on the way back to the Crown and Lion.

_Her smiles and her shining eyes, as she places her palm over her protruding belly every now and then._

Nathaniel is happy for her, and for her and her only, he put aside his resentment and shook hands with Albert, even though his bile still rises every time he recalls what the man _dared_.

_Take care of her well, Albert Derwan, or I'll rip your heart out with my bare hands._

Delilah's obvious affection for the man, and his for her, though, makes such thoughts rather pointless.

Smiling for himself, Nathaniel barely pays attention to the almost empty streets: the frost has driven the good folks of Amaranthine into the warmth of their homes.

"Hey! Slow down! Everyone ain't got those long leggies of yers!"

Realizing that he has taken up fast stride, Nathaniel slows his pace and waits for Oghren to catch up.

"Ye've been smiling for hours, ye know that, Howe?" the dwarf comments, himself grinning with that uncharacteristic sentimental trait he has been displaying the whole day… practically, ever since noticing Delilah's pregnancy.

_I'd never thought he had that in him, such… tenderness._

_And much less of a social disaster than I expected. It was a good day. A perfect day._

In this light, the consequences of Anders' misadventure of the previous night brought at least some good: Cousland postponed their departure in order to discuss the matter with Knight Commander Rylien.

' _I promised Rylock to let her keep her head, not complete absolution, and I certainly don't want anyone to think that they can scheme against me and mine without repercussions. I want her gone, preferably out of Ferelden, and I'm going to make sure that Knight Commander Rylien keeps her staff under stricter supervision.'_

And so Cousland left for the Templars' quarters right after the breakfast, taking a strong escort and emphasizing that no-one was to leave the inn on their own. With the rest of Kenneth's men assigned to guarding the horses and supplies and the mages being ordered to sit on their asses at the inn, the only remaining companion of choice was…Oghren.

Unlike Velanna, still annoyed over the chastising she received at the gate, Anders took his confinement on the bright side:

' _Ser Pounce-a-lot doesn't like the cold, and if I left him here, he would feel lonely, wouldn't you, kitty?'_

_Really, how did the cat cope before?_

_Ser Pounce-a-lot. Anders must have spent the rest of the night making this up._  If there ever was a more ridiculous name for a cat, Nathaniel hasn't discovered it yet.

As they turn round the corner, two half-drunk men leave the comfort of a tavern: supporting each other by their shoulders, cheering and singing rather off tune. Each still holds a bottle in his hand, and both merrily wave the bottles as they spot Oghren and Nathaniel coming up.

"Lucky buggers," Oghren mutters. "Let's move on, so that we can have our own share of booze, this wind will freeze me off me bits!"

His attention does not go unnoticed, and the two men hospitably offer their bottles. "Here you go, bro', there's still enough to keep warm a regimen!"

Oghren laughs with delight, approaching the two men, while Nathaniel irritatedly shakes his head.  _Great Maker. Will he_ ever _miss a chance to get a drink_? Nonetheless, he has to stop and wait for Oghren.

The men and the dwarf exchange a couple of ribald remarks, and then the dwarf raises the bottle to his lips. As he does so, a faint glow envelops his wrist, and Nathaniel's heart skips a beat as he realizes what that means. "Don't d –"

He never finishes: as he reaches for the sword hilt, stepping forward at the same time, there comes a strong blow to his back, followed by searing pain.

With a muffled cry, Nathaniel falls to his knee but his reflexes take over: his blade flashes out in a broad protective arc, towards the sensed opponent emerging from the shadows.

The runed steel almost does not slow as it meets an obstacle; a wail follows, and a clank of metal, as a dagger swooping down suddenly drops to the ground. Nathaniel himself, though, keels over: with the twist of his torso, the pain in his back flares. To secure himself, he has to lean on his left hand –

– where there is a burning sensation around his wrist, and the glow of the runestones is visible even through the thick fabric of his sleeve –

The dagger lies mere inches from Nathaniel's hand: a thin stiletto, its blade dulled in the starlight not only with Nathaniel's blood, but with some dark, sticky substance –

–  _oh, dammit –_

– Oghren, also on his knees, is coughing and heaving, and those two –

Pushing himself from the ground, Nathaniel springs to his feet, twirling with his blade; and although he staggers dangerously, the two thugs, miraculously sobered, step back for a moment. Their knives are plain and glistening, and with his own left-hand dagger and the shortsword, Nathaniel has an advantage of better weapons – an advantage he is unable to utilise, he realizes with chilling certainty.

With every step, and with the warm wetness spreading down to his waist, his movements are becoming ever slower and clumsier. Gasping, he has no other option but to retreat, until he finds himself with his back against the wall. His heart is beating frantically, his arms feel heavy like lead: there is no way he can hold long.

Even shorter, as it seems: he blocks an attack with his forearm instead of the dagger, and the blade slashes deep at his flesh. The hilt slips from his fingers.

With sheer despair, instead of evading, he starts against the attacker with his injured hand, grabbing him by the sleeve and pushing him against the other.

The crucial second of distraction is enough to provide a space for Nathaniel's blade.

The remaining attacker hesitates and steps back again, but for Nathaniel it is only his swan song. His legs tremble and he is short of breath; his fingertips are growing numb. Oghren, on his knees and elbows, leaning with his forehead against the ground, can hardly be any help… and only now, even though his vision is blurring, Nathaniel notices three more men, waiting in the shadows.

The chill of the stones behind him pierces him to the bone, the shirt wet with sweat and blood clinging to his body.

 _I'm going to die here_ , he realizes.

But he is Nathaniel  _Howe_ , and he won't go down easily.

Two of the new thugs approach him, bidden by a sharp gesture from the third: a tall, broad-shouldered man hiding under a hood. They wield swords, not mere daggers, and tread with the certainty of those knowing that their victim is barely able to stand.

With the strength born of despair, Nathaniel plunges himself against the last of his previous opponents, thrusting his blade in the man's belly. The thug goes down with a scream, and Nathaniel's sword goes, too, released from his uncertain grip. The fast movement has brought the street to a swirl before his eyes; desperately groping for the support of the wall, he falls against it and slowly slides down as his legs give way. The dark of the night drowns in even deeper blackness; his heart, pounding in his chest, fills his ears with throbbing which subdues the surrounding sounds.

" _Finish the traitor off and get going quickly!"_  someone commands from a distance.

A hand grabs him by the hair, pulling his head backwards; then comes an even more distant roar and something falls over Nathaniel, pressing him finally to the ground, which, surprisingly, does not feel chilly at all. The weight over him disappears, and all he feels is the warmth of his blood, pouring all over him like a warm blanket.

" _Nathaniel! Don't die on me now, ye sodding blighter…"_

The voice finally drowns in the darkness, and then there is nothing.

* * *

 

His mouth feels parched, with a queer, bitter taste on his palate. The attempt to raise his head from the pillow is weirdly straining.

_The pillow?_

Opening his eyes, Nathaniel's assumption is confirmed: he is lying on his belly, in a bed which looks quite like that in which he has spent a couple of nights at the Crown and Lion.

_My bed. The Crown and the Lion._

_Did I get drunk?_

_The drink –_

No, he wasn't drunk, though, remembering the events of that cold night, he very much wishes it was just a drunken nightmare. He feels weak, and there is a bandage around his ribcage:  _no dream at all_.

Yet, he feels much more alive than he is entitled to; by all accounts, he should have been dead at least twice. A cautious attempt to move is rewarded by a somewhat unpleasant feeling at the spot where he was stabbed, and it also provokes a motion just next to his head.

As he raises his head, startled, he meets the green stare of a rather sleepy cat, curled on the pillow next to him.

Sir Pounce-a-lot, woken abruptly from his slumber, yawns profoundly.

Groaning in disgust, Nathaniel jerks his head away: whatever the cat has eaten, its breath is overwhelming.

There is a clap, as if a book was closed shut, and the familiar jovial voice states: "So, you've finally awoken? Some people were betting you would remain sleeping the yuletide."

"It seems I woke up only to be finished off by your cat's foul breath," Nathaniel mutters.

Both Anders and the cat give him an offended look. "Well, in your case it might count as an improvement." Anders scoops the cat in his arms, petting the tabby fur. "Come here, kitty." Glaring alongside at Nathaniel, he adds: "In fact, he may have helped to revive you, you know. He was lying next to you for the better part of those three days – cats  _are_ really helpful at healing, you know. No, if it weren't – "

" _Three_  days?" Nathaniel gingerly touches his face but the stubble seems to confirm the claim. Little wonder he feels the way he does. "How come I am alive at all?" he returns to the previously pondered question.

"Well, there were a couple of factors involved. First of all, thank Cera – no, first thank yourself that you moved and the blade hit a rib, or you would have been dead on the spot. Next, thank Cera that those pretty little stones of hers really worked against the poison. Third, thank Oghren for cutting down those guys you didn't manage to cut down yourself, and fourth, the Commander for being such a dutiful nanny and sending an escort when you were late – now that I think of it, you might want to kill Oghren first for being such a thickhead and thank him afterwards, but I'm not sure if this would work..."

 _Oh, wonderful. First the cat's breath, then Anders' talking – and here I thought that being stabbed and poisoned was the worst that could have happened to me._  "Could I have something to drink?"

" – and I don't think that – Ah. Oh. Sorry. Of course." Holding Ser Pounce-a-lot in his left hand, Anders sits on the bed and helps Nathaniel to rise.

As he does so, a quiet but prominent sound issues, followed by the unmistakable odour of the cat fart. The mage's ever-present smile stiffens and he quickly puts the cat on the floor. "Ah, Pounce… be a good kitty and go play with that fur ball I gave you, right?"

Ser Pounce-a-lot's meowing sounds rather offended. Instead of playing, he jumps on Anders' bed where he curls again, watching the two men with clear disdain in his green eyes.

The lukewarm tea is too sweet, and yet with some lingering bitterness underneath, but Anders insists on drinking it all. "Don't protest, you were bleeding like a slaughtered pig and you need every cure you can get."

Checking the wound, he allows Nathaniel to lie on his back – a welcome change, since his body feels stiff, but the turning leaves him more exhausted than he would have believed. Even before he finishes a second cup that Anders forces on him, his lids start feeling heavy.

His last thought, before he drifts off, is that Anders has left himself out of the list of people to be thanked.

* * *

When he wakes again, considerably refreshed, the room is drowning in the dusk of a quickly waning winter day. The mage is nowhere to be seen, but even now, Nathaniel's sleep was not unguarded.

Ned Cousland rises from the chair by the window and walks over to the bed. "Anders is asleep," he says softly. "He was straining himself to heal you as thoroughly as he could. How are you feeling?"

"Much better."

As Nathaniel attempts to sit up, the Commander quickly prevents him by putting his hand on his shoulder. "Don't. He said you would, and that I shouldn't let you. You nearly died, after all." Putting his hand away, he adds: "I'm sorry."

Nathaniel blinks several times, uncomprehending. "What for?"

"I underestimated the risk for you. I should have realized that one companion might not suffice. You both could have been killed."

This rings a familiar bell, and brings home an idea already forming for some time. Nathaniel curses under his breath. "There's no need to blame yourself. Both me and Oghren were unbelievably careless, and I – Maker, she all but told me I was on the list, as well, but I didn't realize the implication then." Seeing Cousland frown, he explains: "Esmerelle. She seemed somewhat intent on the fact that I took care to warn you during that the incident at the gate, and I wanted her to shut up, so I told her that my loyalty does lie with you. She said then something to the sense that we both need Maker's protection."

Cousland's frown deepens. "How did I miss this?"

"You were talking to Temmerly, I think –"

_The chill of the night, and of the stone behind him. The broad figure in the dim starlight. 'Finish off the traitor!'_

Nathaniel shudders and swallows hard. "By any chance –" he pauses, as his voice sounds shaky, "you do not have any clue about Ser Temmerly's whereabouts on that night, do you?"

A long stare. "Lady Esmerelle, "Ned says slowly, "was holding a little banquet at that time. Ser Timothy, Temmerly and a couple of others were present throughout the whole evening – or so she claimed when she rushed to enquire about your well-being."

 _To make sure I wasn't going to talk_. "I do not know if it was Temmerly, anyway. A tall broad man with a hood; I can't tell if it was his voice or not. I don't even know if it was he who spoke."

"Oghren doesn't know even that much – he was too busy cutting down those who were about to slit your throat. He did hear what was said, though." His dark eyes unfathomable in the poor light, he leans closer. "Nathaniel… do you have any clue why those thugs, whoever they were, referred to you as 'traitor'?"

Meeting the dark stare, Nathaniel does not flinch, though he feels as if the bed under him shook for a second. "No. When I pledged you my service, I held nothing from you. I was on my own, and allied myself with no-one."

He receives a nod, as if what he said was simply accepted as true, and his throat tightens: it is not relief what he feels but a sudden, unexpected rush of emotion at  _being trusted_ without as much as a second thought.

The realization what it means to him is overwhelming. On an impulse, he reaches his hand. "I am sworn to you, no mater what."

Ned's hand meets his in a firm grasp.

After a while, Ned says softly: "There is but one possible explanation I can think of. By being loyal to me, you are a traitor to your father's cause. I do not doubt that those who thrived under his arlship would perceive you as such."

The thought of such a twisted loyalty to a no less twisted man is sickening.

"If it is truly so, the hatred of the likes of these is something I can live with," Nathaniel grunts. "As long as my sister – "

 _Maker, Delilah_ …

The thought pierces him like a blade and Nathaniel almost jumps from the bed.

Ned quickly puts a hand on his shoulder again. "Don't disquiet yourself. Delilah is as alright as she can be."

"But if those bastards –"

"They won't get to her. I packed her off for Denerim together with her husband the first thing in the morning after your 'incident', and I sent along Kenneth with ten men."

Nathaniel stares at him, dumbfounded. "But – but that leaves you here with only a handful for your own protection…"

The grin which fleets over Cousland's features is almost vicious. "They are welcome to try their luck. Aidan's best men are secretly stationed around night and day, while you are supposedly still on the brink of death. I don't think they'll risk another attempt so shortly after the previous failure, though." His expression warms and softens. "Delilah knows the truth, of course, I guess I wouldn't be able to send her off if your life was still in danger. She was loath to go, anyway, until I explained her that they might try to use her to get to you. I've made arrangements to make sure she will be safeguarded in Denerim, you needn't worry."

Once again, Nathaniel feels almost overcome with emotions: obviously, the injury has weakened his self-control, although, the thought of Delilah becoming a tool for blackmailing would probably unnerve him any time. "Thank you," he manages in a hoarse voice. "You didn't have to do that."

He receives a slightly annoyed look. "Of course I did, I nearly cost her a brother. – No, don't try to exonerate me, I've done a poor job in reward for Delilah's loyalty – or do you think I forgot she was among the first to alert me to the danger?"

 _Among?_  "Who was  _the_  first, then, if I may ask? You knew there was a plot against you right after the oaths of fealty ceremony, didn't you?"

Cousland drops his voice low. "Ser Tamra."

" _Tamra?"_  Remembering the woman's tightly pursed lips, Nathaniel can hardly believe that.

"Tamra. Apparently not out any concern for my well-being; she simply thinks she stands better chances on my side." He shrugs. "I will not hesitate to express my gratitude as soon as she provides me with a proof of Esmerelle's involvement but she had better be cautious. She took quite a risk by letting me know that something was up on that night."

"So… you went out for me on  _her_  word? What if that was a trap for  _you_?"

A snort. "As it turned out, it wasn't."

The room is almost completely dark now except for the glow of the brazier.

"So… Nathaniel ventures at last, "how much longer are we stuck here?"

"Kenneth should be back tomorrow but Anders says you need at least two more days before you are able to ride."

"Two more days… So I've cost us almost a  _week_? Have you at least been to utilize the time somehow? That wench – Sorsha, was it? – did she really hold something back?"

Ned laughs softly. "Yes, she did – she withheld the most vital truth of Kristoff's kerchief which she kept as a remembrance." He spreads his arms, twisting his lips sardonically. "Otherwise, nothing. Not a single new piece of information at all, which makes our trip here completely useless. You got stabbed for nothing."

Pondering the course and outcome of that night, Nathaniel slowly shakes his head. "I have spent a wonderful time with my sister, and she is safely gone from this vipers' nest. For me, it was well worth it."

In the dim light, Ned Cousland, the man who has gained and given his full trust, smiles in understanding, and Nathaniel smiles back.


	22. Blackmarsh

Silence.

Complete and undisturbed but for the noises their small group makes: the nervous snorting of their horses, the hooves breaking the crust of the frozen snow; the soft tinkling of reins, Wolf's occasional whining.

As far as Nathaniel can see, the snow in the abandoned streets lies undisturbed, as well.

There is nothing and no-one, no birds, not even crows, searching relentlessly for any remnants to feed on.

Only the dead silence.

Unnatural.

As unnatural as those shimmering shapes and curtains, barely visible, with prowling shadows which can be discerned only with a corner of an eye.

They finally pause after they have made their way to a small square in the middle of the town; instinctively, they form a circle, their weapons ready.

As if weapons could be any use.

Constantly, Nathaniel feels as if being watched: an intent, malevolent gaze, sticking to his nape, making his hair rise. Yet, whenever he turns, there is nothing, and no-one.

The place is haunted for sure.

Her gloved hands firmly grasping the staff, placed ready across her saddle, Velanna is looking around, wide-eyed, her fear emanating almost palpably. When her horse jerks its head, she startles. "What are we waiting for?" she blurts out, her voice tense. "There is nothing here, no Kristoff of yours, and no darkspawn, either."

"I wish the  _nothing_  part was true, as well," Anders mutters, his eyes not leaving a structure situated on a hillock above the town, obscured by one of the shimmering veils: a mansion, or a chateaux, of Orlaisian style, though its shape seems to be constantly shifting, and so does the landscape around. "There is pretty much  _something_  that I really do not like. We'd better get going, before we get some company. That is the Fade over there. We can have demons swooping down upon us any time."

"If you're worried that you might turn into an abomination, I can smite you pre-emptively." By his tone, Ned seems rather oblivious to the menace – or, as it might be, putting up an act.

Anders scowls. "Have I ever told you that I really, really hate those Templar tricks of yours? – Where did you say you picked them, once more?"

Despite the circumstances, Nathaniel feels the corner of his mouth twist: this is an old game between the two, and following the usual course.

"On the roads," Ned replies casually.

Anders rolls his eyes. "Sure, they were dumped in the ditch." He snaps his fingers. "Just like that."

Oghren issues a rumbling chuckle: it seems that the dwarf knows, or has figured out on his own, and he apparently enjoys teasing the mage with it. He laughs again: in his case, the lack of fear is usually directly attributed to the amount of ale he has drunk. "You'd never guess who taught him, skirtie. You'd never, ever, guess."

"A big pink fluffy rabbit?"

Ned laughs. "I'll pass on the compliment, he'll love it."

"Gotcha!" Anders gloats with self-satisfaction. "Now I know that you learned from a male!"

_Which leaves you only half the humankind to pick from._

"Pah!" Velanna's limited patience has run out. "Quit that inane talk of yours! What do we do if the demons do come upon us?"

Ned turns to her, his brows half-raised. "Kill them? They die much like everyone else. Just don't make any deals with them."

Nathaniel shoots a quick glance in his direction.  _Bloody cocksure, aren't we?_

Uncowed by Velanna's furious glare, Ned Cousland nods towards the silent houses. "We take a look around."

Despite his light-hearted tone, the banter is dropped: the alert silence of Blackmarsh is not inclined towards humour. Waiting outside with Velanna and Oghren until the Commander and Anders finish the examination of yet another derelict house, Nathaniel has to contend with all his instincts urging him to run.

The hillock above the town is the source of it all, of that he is sure.

The spot where he was stabbed itches.

Worried, he looks up at the sun: its previous brightness has become somewhat dimmed and the blue of the sky is not as clear as before, either.

Half an hour later, his suspicion is confirmed: a change of weather is under way.

A remarkably sudden change, given how stable the weather has been in the last two weeks; and during the whole journey from their base at Narrowdale, there was not a single cloud in the sky.

He would not be particularly surprised to find out that the weather was changing only at around Blackmarsh.

_A crucial fact the stories seemed to omit._

Another ten minutes later, the sky is overcast and the wind is beginning to rise in angry gusts.

"We should get out and find a shelter in the hills!" Velanna reminds of a trapped animal, and quite justifiably so: the veils parting the world from the Fade have become more prominent, their glimmer growing stronger in the onsetting darkness.

"We won't be able to make it to the hills," the Commander assesses. "I suggest that we fall back to that house we inspected previously, the door still held."

Accompanied by the howling wind, they return to the house which may have belonged to the city mayor: a sturdy stone building with slate roof, still withstanding the elements which have taken their toll on the less durable structures. The horses, though, don't appreciate the idea: they are on the verge of panic, their wildly rolling eyes showing the white. Nathaniel mutters curses under his breath: managing their packhorse in addition to his own is proving increasingly difficult.

It takes Nathaniel quite a while to make his steed ascend the three broad stairs and enter the hall, dimly lit by the weirlight Anders has placed there. Luckily, the pack horse becomes more obedient after that, and so he can soon assist Oghren and Velanna in ushering their own horses in; doing his best to calm the animals so that they can be tied to the pillars of the inner staircase. He wishes he could calm Velanna, as well, but his attempt to take her by the shoulder is rewarded with a murderous look.

Meanwhile, the wind has gained the strength of a gale, tugging wildly at his cloak and wailing among the walls – not loud enough, though, to subdue the howling that sounds from somewhere close to their right, resounding to the left, right and left again.

"Get the rest of the horses in!" Ned hands the reins of his horse to Nathaniel and bends to grab Wolf's collar. "Hold… hold on, boy…" Having secured the dog, he draws his sword. "Get ready!"

"What for?" Anders yells against the wind, struggling with his prancing horse. "What was that? Wolves?"

 _Worse. Maker, no wolf is entitled to be_ so _big!_

 _And no real wolf is supposed to simply materialize from deep shadows, either_ , Nathaniel thinks briefly as the beast, the mass of furry muscles, red-glowing eyes, fangs and claws, is upon them.

Anders' horse screeches in sheer terror and breaks loose; the mage barely manages to jump out of its way as it gallops in panic towards its fate. Its pained neighing dies away among wild snarls.

Nathaniel does not see the poor animal's end; the Commander's horse is also panicking and he has to restrain it with all his strength and skill. Nonetheless; the furious growling and howling around him gets tinged with pain every now and then; he hears Oghren's battle cry, the mages yelling their spells; he glimpses the prowling dark shapes, glistening steel and flashes of fire – and cannot do a thing himself, unless he sacrifices the horse.

Cursing, he withstands another violent jerk at the reins. His arms already ache: if his companions don't deal with the beasts soon, there is a good chance that he will not be able to restrain the horse any longer.

The horse neighs and prances again as a monstrous wolf leaps between the defenders. Before it can get any further, Velanna promptly turns and sends a forked lightning through its body: the heat of the fight has bolstered the elf's spirit.

While she is distracted, though, another massive shape comes out of the shadows behind her and springs at the elf with its maw open.

"Look out, Velanna!" Nathaniel yells helplessly, realizing that even if he let go the reins this instant, he wouldn't make it in time.

The elf has heard him, though: twirling at the last possible moment, she ducks and preys the end of her staff into the gaping maw. A stream of flames issues from the staff, consuming the beast from within. The body, borne by the energy of the last leap, barely lands on the frozen ground when Velanna already sends a fiery ball at the wolf rushing from the right.

No more beasts come after that, and the fight is soon over. Cousland whistles loudly at Wolf and checks his companions with a quick glance. "No-one got bitten, I hope?"

No. No-one has got as much as a scratch. Nathaniel looks towards the hillock; the radiance shimmering as cold and impassive as before. ' _Bit more than you could chew, it would seem_ , he thinks, and immediately slaps himself mentally:  _overconfidence, the death of many a fool_. He sincerely hopes they will not join these any time soon.

The wind seems to be blowing even more furiously, bearing gusts of tiny snowflakes.

"Get in!" the Commander calls. He takes over his horse. "Thanks for holding him."

"You're welcome," Nathaniel replies rather sourly: he feels every strained muscle.

"And what about my poor horse? And my saddle pouch?" Anders rumbles as they bar the windows with the remnants of shutters and furniture.

"I'll be happy to lend you my spare breeches," Oghren calls from the table which he is disassembling. " _Real_  men's wear, no skirts."

Anders only pouts scornfully: he was rather happy to leave his mage outfit at the Keep and swap it for a pair of woollens, like every sensible person. "Your breeches are well capable of standing on their own, and if you keep them unwashed a little longer, they might even be able to walk away. – As much as I may miss my possessions, the most precious piece is over here, anyway." He pats lovingly the pouch he carries across his shoulder, strapped carefully except for a small breathing hole which now and then sports Ser Pounce-a-lot's rather annoyed face. The gesture is not appreciated: the pouch hisses angrily and starts trashing about.

Oghren eyes the pouch with aroused interest. "'Thought you had just one of 'em? Looks like there are two, and at it."

Ignoring the dwarf and mage's exchange, Ned Cousland is standing by the last unbarred window, gazing at the whirling snow – or rather, as Nathaniel realizes when he comes closer, at the hillock shrouded with the radiant curtain.

The look on his face is that of a hunter assessing the next kill – and looking forward to it with grim satisfaction.

Nathaniel shakes his head in disbelief. "Is it just me, or are you really enjoying yourself?" he remarks in a low voice.

He receives a somewhat startled, and surprisingly embarrassed, glance. "Does it seems so?"

 _Either that, or you are the most cold-blooded bastard I've ever seen_. "Well, you certainly do not seem… disquieted in any way. Are you really not afraid when facing something like that?"

Looking back at the wall of rainbow colours, Ned Cousland slowly replies: "That is really nothing. Those things in beyond can only kill you, like anything else. That is not what I fear most, so… just another thing to be killed, rather than be killed myself." A twist of his mouth, as the spark returns to his eye. "Isn't there a saying that if you go to Blackmarsh, you will die? Well, whoever dwells over there, they seem to have given the first try – a rather lame one, I'd say."

The realisation forms crystal clear. "You have faced these before, those…"

"Werewolves. Or shadow wolves. Yes. In the Brecillian forest. That is a… haunted place, as well." His voice wavers slightly, but the next remark diverts Nathaniel's interest. "And I've seen my deal of the Fade, as well, so this is not something I would fear."

"The  _Fade_?" Struggling with the board brought to bar the window, Nathaniel frowns.  _Is there_ something _you haven't seen, man_? "How?"

Ned takes hold of the other end of the board and helps him to push it in the window frame. "It was an accident… a trap of a sloth demon."

_Let me guess. The poor thing was painfully sorry to have engaged you in the end._

Trying to imagine what is past his experience, Nathaniel cannot help but keep asking: "What is it like – the Fade? From what I see through those curtains, it's rather scary."

"The Fade is… confusing, I guess? Nothing like I've ever seen. There are no certainties, no clear shapes, your own mind plays tricks on you. Yet, in a way, I sort of…liked it. It – " he shakes his head. "You would have to see yourself."

_Maker preserve, I'd rather not._

His feelings must be quite apparent, since Ned chuckles softly. "Really, it wasn't that bad. Have you ever dreamt of becoming a stone giant? Or being as little as a mouse, so that you could prowl unseen? Being a ghost, passing through things? In the Fade, I was able to do this. I never thought of changing my shape before but after that, I must say that the notion seems… appealing. I wish I was able to do that again. Ever since that, I've envied Morrigan – "

 _Morrigan_. Nathaniel knows the name and its meaning: Oghren has never been discreet, and he gossips worse than an old crone. And, given the way the sentence is left unfinished, there is apparently more to gossip about than Oghren suspects.

"Never mind. I want to investigate what can be done here but I don't expect we will see any more of the Fade than we already have." Cousland's voice slips into the manner Nathaniel knows all too well: formal politeness, covering whatever may lie beneath. "It seems the room is safe, we'd better take a look upstairs."

The windows upstairs are small and scarce, easily barred with chests and wardrobes. Cousland has fallen into a gloomy silence but Nathaniel does not mind, preoccupied by what has been told so far. Out of breath and sweating as they have been moving a particularly heavy chest of drawers, he remarks: "That stone giant you mentioned would come handy now. You sure you cannot make it at least for a while?"

A quick beam of a smile. "Don't think I haven't tried hard!"

When they come back into the main room, Anders welcomes them with relief: his travel pouch has apparently run out of patience with the confinement. "Come, Pounce, it's finally safe for little kittens to out – Ouch!" As soon as he unstraps the buckles, Ser Pounce-a-lot spurts out as an extremely infuriated fur ball, stopping only to sink his claws into Anders' hand. "Hey! What was that for?"

Hissing in answer, the cat stops in the middle of the room, its tail high; then with the last glance of utter contempt, he decides that the single person still worth his attention is… Velanna.

Completely petrified, the elf watches the cat rubbing against her calves. "Why… is it doing that?" she finally stutters.

"Screw me if I know…" Anders mutters, rather offended: the elf never showed any interest in the cat, and vice versa. "Could it be possessed?"

Oghren quickly eyes the mage. "Was that an offer?"

Seeing Velanna so out of herself is… endearing. Nathaniel crosses the room. "He wants to be petted," he explains. "Have you never had a cat?"

The look he receives is quickly becoming Velanna-like again. "We Dalish do not bend animals to our wills!"

"Well, you're not bending him to anything, he chose to come to you himself," Nathaniel points out.

Velanna looks down at the cat, her expression indiscernible. "So… what do I do?"

_Amid a haunted town, a lesson in cat manners._

When Pounce finally purrs in Velanna's arms, against her breasts, Nathaniel quickly averts his eyes from Anders', since they apparently follow the same train of thought, which Oghren is all too happy to express: " _Lucky bugger_."


	23. Whatever Happened To Kristoff?

The morning comes with an equally bright sky as the previous day, yet the threat hanging in the air is almost palpable. Without much discussion, they set out towards the hillock, or as close as they can get to the Veil encircling it, to investigate the source – "no use to piss around the stone when you can piss  _at_  it", as Oghren put it.

Soon enough, their effort is rewarded: issuing as if from the Veil, there is a track in the frozen snow, leading to the hills behind the town; or rather, to a specific place, as it turns out.

Anders whistles softly and raises his brows. "What's  _that_?"

 _That_  is a circle of standing stones, with one placed lying in the middle – the likes of such can be found all over Thedas, related to some long-lost religion of ancient days. As far as Nathaniel knows, however, none of them usually sports layers of dark, fleshy materia, moulds and strange pods, all of which issue a strong feel of the Taint.

It is not common for such circles to sport a body lying in the centre, either.

"This is an evil place," Velanna whispers. "Harel'an. An'elgar'en…"

_And reeking of a trap wide and far._

Scouting the surroundings gives them no clue: it is the usual composition of low bushes, rocks and grass, covered with frozen snow, bared at the spots exposed to the sun. Whoever has left the tracks, did not move outside the circle.

"What do we do now?" Anders asks. "It's definitely suspicious, but if that body over there is not the guy we've come for, I'll eat my shoes."

"Laid there like a bait in a nugtrap," Oghren mutters, frowning.

His arms folded on his chest, Ned Cousland watches the circle intently, his expression indiscernible. He taps his fingers against his bracer. "Take positions around," he says finally. "I'll go in and set the trap off."

Oghren gives him a rather contemptuous look. "On your own? Are you friggin' nuts?" He pats his axe. "Me and my gal will watch yer back."

 _A remarkably sound idea_ , Nathaniel has to admit,  _for one alebottle of a dwarf, though not completely._ "I'll go," he says. "You want someone able to read tracks with you, if there are any to be found."

A quick glance, and a nod. "Alright. The two of us, then. The rest, around the circle. You at the entrance, Oghren, and hold Wolf."

For once, the dog doesn't take it as a personal offence: instead, with his teeth bared, he keeps growling towards the circle.

Nathaniel watches the place with unease: the fleshy pods reach the height of a man at some places, clustering around several stones.  _Who knows what might be hiding inside, or among these?_

Inside the circle, the layer of snow is considerably thinner, and slippery, as most of it has turned into ice. There is no snow or frost in the proximity of the pods:  _as if those things somehow emanated warmth._

As could have been expected, finding any distinguishable tracks is next to impossible.  _Something_ did walk inside the circle,  _something_  was as if dragged all over the place, _something_  was stuck in the snow in regular lines –  _sticks, or bones; something thin_.

Nathaniel  _hates_  being clueless.

With their swords drawn, they approach the corpse.

Its blood-stained cloak is clasped with a brooch in the shape of a griffon rampant.

Kristoff.

A single look tells Nathaniel that the man did not die where he is lying: there are at least a dozen wounds that punctured the chainmail on his torso, yet hardly a trace of blood on the ground.

_Dragged here…why?_

Kneeling down, Nathaniel looks for the darker spots on the neck:  _placed here just after he died and hasn't been moved since._

_Lying here, all the time, since…_

The corpse bears no marks of beasts or insects, even the eyes are intact, though somewhat dried due to the frost.  _Nothing lives in Blackmarsh, nothing ventures here… not even carrion birds._

The skin seems wizened, as well, but on the whole, the body is rather well preserved, with minimum signs of decay: the man can't have been dead for long before the onset of frost. Yet, there is no snow or ice on him –  _to make sure that he is recognized immediately?_

Looking up to report to the Commander, Nathaniel startles and springs up as he glimpses a movement to their left.

With a curse, Ned swirls to face the threat. Then he pauses, and Nathaniel feels his own jaw drop: the darkspawn that emerges from among the pods is like none he has ever seen. The size and shape are those of a hurlock alpha, but the creature moves with determination, and certain elegance. His black armour is of fine make, and he carries the helmet under his left arm. He makes no attempt to reach for his longsword… and it doesn't surprise Nathaniel in the least when he  _speaks_.

"The Mother, she sends her regards." The voice sounds hollow, and oddly tuned, which makes his words somewhat difficult to comprehend. "She knew you would come for your Warden here. I, the First, am to relay her words to you: she will not let you continue Father's work!"

Before they can respond, he raises his hand, and a small object that he has been holding blazes with a flash of greenish light.

Nathaniel is unsure what followed: for an instant, he feels as if losing ground and the giddiness brings about a fit of nausea; he blinks as the surroundings suddenly look blurred.

Blinking is no help: the blurring is still there.

The next moment, he gasps: the surroundings are not just blurred but  _different_. The stones and pods are still there, and so is the dead corpse, but there is no trace of  _anything_ outside the circle – no Oghren, Anders or Velanna, no horses tied to the rocks way off the circle, not even the rocks themselves… no blue sky with sunshine. The landscape around is of weird, unnatural shapes and colours, constantly shifting from one to another, and so is the…sky… above them. Nathaniel swallows hard to keep his revolting stomach in place and quickly averts his eyes, to the only normal objects around, which are the Commander, and a very surprised and confused darkspawn, if he has ever seen one.

It is the darkspawn who finds his voice first. "How? How so?" he stutters. "Betrayed? The First is betrayed?" He is turning around, his face, for all its corrupt features, expressing disbelief.

"Who betrayed you? What's going on here?" Ned, apparently not nauseous in the least, does not waste the time.

The darkspawn turn to him. "Why ask? The Warden Commander is where he should be, and that is all that matters. The Children will do what must be done!"

_Mother, Father, now Children… since when are darkspawn supposed to build families?_

Sarcasm is immediately forgotten, though, when the pods  _open_.

Stunned, Nathaniel stares at the things quickly approaching them,  _on thin stick-like legs_. Most of all, they resemble woodlice… if woodlice can be the size of a dog and emit the feel of the Taint. They don't look particularly more harmful than woodlice, either, until the closest suddenly raises the front part of its body and strikes hard against Nathaniel's legs, with unexpected strength. The moment he falls on the ground, it is  _on_  him, pinning him down, crawling over him up to his face, the mouth with sharp teeth opening wide…

Finally remembering the blade he has been holding, Nathaniel blindly plunges it into the monstrosity's side. It issues a shrill scream and starts coiling frantically, its many legs beating around, dark slime sputtering from the wound and the mouth, all over him.

That proves too much for Nathaniel's quivering stomach. He retches helplessly, attempting to withdraw from the twitching body – an instinctive reaction, since he is acutely aware that it is the  _living_  woodlice, not the dying ones, that he should fear.

The ground thunders and shakes, sending another painful twist through Nathaniel's stomach, and he heaves again as a massive stone foot crushes a woodlouse mere inches from his body.

 _Dammit_.

Only once in his life did he get so drunk that he spent the next day throwing, and now it actually feels as a time of his life, compared to his current state.

A rustle of clothes, as Ned kneels next to him and takes him by the shoulders. "Are you alright?"

Nathaniel nods, very lightly, since "no" wouldn't be any help, and neither movement would agree with his stomach, anyway. He allows himself just the briefest look at the crunched bodies of the darkspawn woodlice around and squeezes his eyes shut.

"Breathe deep and keep your eyes closed, it should pass soon enough. I'll get that slime off you meanwhile."

Nathaniel hates being pampered so, but since it is his stomach and not his pride that is currently in charge, he complies.

Finally, when he feels safe enough to open his mouth without exposing the content of his innards, he remarks: "So, this must be the Fade, I presume?"

"In all its glory." A snort. "I must admit that of all possible outcomes, this twist was rather unexpected."

 _Unexpected. Maker, what an understatement_. "Since when are darkspawn supposed to send Wardens to the Fade?"

"A good question. Likewise, since when darkspawn speak, abduct and bleed Wardens, are busy making families and turn into crawlers."

The last part is rather unnerving. "So, these are some new darkspawn? I thought this was something you and Oghren simply left out."

"Unfortunately not."

Despite the odds, Nathaniel is already starting to feel better… somewhat. Risking to open his eyes for a moment, he glances over the crushed darkspawn once more, and then at Ned, who looks suspiciously much like the proverbial cat who ate the equally proverbial canary –  _and, of course, is not slimy all over in the least_. "The stone giant, huh?"

A satisfied grin. "The stone giant. Maker, I never thought I'd be able to pull that trick again… and I'm more than glad I could. Ugly beasts – even uglier than the regular darkspawn." He shudders. "I'm not particularly fond of critters of this size."

 _Well, at least_ some _flaw._

The following words startle him, though. "Since you seem better off, we should get going."

"Where to?"

"There?" Ned indicates with his head. "Or over there?"

'There' means a hillock with a luxurious residence in Orlaisian style, which looks surprisingly familiar, until it dawns on Nathaniel that it must be the one they observed through the Veil. 'Over there' then is a town at the bottom of the hillock, with spirals of smoke rising above the well-kept roofs. The layout of the town seems familiar, as well… all too familiar.

_Blackmarsh._

_Inhabited._

They approach the town slowly, and cautiously, in case the townsfolk are not what they seem – even though Nathaniel is unsure what they are supposed to be, anyway. His imagination promptly offers him a few ideas, which makes the walk even more cumbersome than it already is. Though the urge to puke has subsided, he still feels nauseous, and _hates_  the Fade absolutely and unconditionally.

The fact that  _Cousland_  is not sick in the least and treads next to him with the expression of a child who has found a long-lost toy, does not contribute to his mood, either.

When they enter the town, the streets are suspiciously empty; however, the square is in commotion, presided by…

 _A knight in a shiny armour. Maker preserve, the Fade is inhabited by fairytale clichés._  Nathaniel rubs his eyes unwittingly: the… figure… of the knight, except being white and shiny, radiates light. It is also somewhat bigger than it ought to be – were it human, of course, which is apparently not the case.

It is not the case of the townsfolk, either, and Nathaniel feels his stomach dangerously close to revolting again.  _The souls of these people have been trapped here for decades, without actually knowing they were dead. What an abomination could have done this?_

_Justice. Through a rebellion. Well, that's certainly something every Fereldan understands._

Listening to the white knight's fervent speech, his eyes meet Ned's. The abomination which trapped the souls here is most probably responsible for their abduction to the Fade, as well, and it apparently made darkspawn its allies.

_Killing it will be not just two birds with one stone but three._

No words are needed.

Resolutely, Ned starts making his way among the townsfolk, towards the white knight. Nathaniel is all too happy to leave all the speaking to the  _Commander_  when he has one; the pompous  _Spirit of Justice_  would probably grate his nerves even if he wasn't feeling sick. Meanwhile, he concentrates on deep, regular breathing and watching his feet, which are only  _slightly_  blurry.

When the crowd sets off for the Orlaisian chateaux, Ned briefly touches his shoulder. "Keep out of the fray but stay close. There is no telling how this will work out. I have no idea what is waiting up there but is will be vile and dangerous, and powerful."

'It' turns out to be a woman, lavishly dressed, of that particular age which makes beauty a product of prolonged and expensive care, the effect of which diminishes by the day. From what Nathaniel can see as she is standing on a balustraded balcony, she has reached the stage when make-up is used predominantly for covering rather than enhancing. Her neatly curled fringe and thin, depilated brows, reflect the Orlaisian style of old portraits, and leave no doubt to her identity.

The baroness of Orlais.

The one who was said to bathe in maidens' blood to sustain her beauty, and made a pact with demons when the cure didn't work.

An Orlaisian to the core, of that there is no doubt, as she addresses the intruders in a haughty manner.

Nathaniel does not pay attention to what is being said: words are but a prelude to what will follow. He sees guards, gathering at the courtyard… and the darkspawn in the black mail, just next to the baroness. He also feels tension, building in the air, pressing on his nape and eardrums. The fight that is about to ensue will not be restricted to common means, that is for sure.

He can only hope that his own contribution will not be restricted to throwing at the enemies' boots.

And then it comes. The baroness claps sharply, and at her gesture, the guards charge. The fact that they turn into fiery demons at that moment is hardly surprising, and not deterring in the least.

The souls of the dead inhabitants of Blackmarsh, abused for so long, have little to fear.

Some more demons appear out of the thin air and engage the Spirit of Justice, and Nathaniel makes a mental note to find out later what  _these_  are, since – minus the horns and claws – they seem distinctly feminine, displaying a set of breasts with –  _Maker, are these supposed to be rings through the nipples?_

Retreating a few steps, Nathaniel glances anxiously at the baroness, who observes the fight with an air of cold condescendence.

Not so the darkspawn. The First.

_The First… of whom?_

Vaulting over the balustrade with feline grace, he lands lithely and strides towards Ned, drawing a blade of unusually dark colour. Some words are exchanged before their swords clash the first time.

Nathaniel gulps hard. No darkspawn he has seen so far was so fast and skilled, so agile. Moving to a convenient spot, he gets his bow ready and opens the smaller quiver. His hands, though, feel as secure as ever: the heat of fight seems a profound cure for nausea.  _Good_.

Soon enough, the fighting is practically over: the survivors make a circle around the last two combatants.

Watching the fight with expert eyes, Nathaniel thinks the chances quite safe. The First may be stronger, and fast, but already bleeding from several wounds: the skill is what counts in the long run, and there is little doubt who has had the better training.

Nathaniel sees the final blow coming even before it actually lands.

The First makes a wobbly step backward and the blade slides from his chest as he collapses to the ground, turning his head towards the baroness and reaching his hand, as if pleading for something with his last effort.

And the baroness responds.

Reaching her hand towards the body, a blurry column of blood raises in the air and is absorbed in the narrow hand with painted nails. Then, the woman hovers over the balustrade.

When she lands in the courtyard, she is a woman no more.

The purple dress bursts as the body swells massively; the delicate cold face transforms into bestial features. The skin turns leathery black, tight over strong muscles, thorns sprout from the joints and shoulders and skull. As it straightens, it is  _huge_.

The beast roars and stomps, sending a shockwave that knocks down everyone close; Nathaniel himself stumbles. The thing – the demon, what else? – stoops and a clawed hand grabs Ned by the waist, hoisting him in the air; the other hand reaches to crush or tear him apart.

Ned's body blurs for a split of a second.

The next moment, a stone giant hits with both his fists the forearm of the hand that is holding him.

The crack of the broken bone is followed by a roar of anger and pain.

The stone giant lands heavily on the ground and immediately punches the black body again. A backsweep of the uninjured hand sends him flying, shattering an elaborate structure of a fountain.

Spreading its arms, the demon yells in a terrible voice, words that cannot be anything else but an incantation.

It never finishes.

An arrow, bearing some of Dworkin's explosive powder, enhanced by Cera's spells, buries deep into the demon's eye socket, and its head shatters like a smashed pumpkin, in a blast of fire.

Then, the world suddenly swirls and the ground disappears under his feet. Desperately clutching the grandfather's bow, Nathaniel is overcome by nausea again, as he is falling, falling…

…he is lying on a hard, uneven surface, his stomach still trembling. Next to him, Ned is getting to his knees, feeling his ribs –

– Kristoff's corpse, and the First's just nearby, the stone circle, the pods, the bright sunshine, Anders yelling something excitedly, Wolf's loud barking –

And before Nathaniel has the time to realize what has happened, the pods  _open_. Every single one.

_Maker, not again._

Clutching desperately the blade he has been holding, Nathaniel stabs and slashes and evades those repulsive  _things_ , the  _Children_ , avoiding the touch of the slick, insectoid bodies… Next to him, Ned Cousland is doing the same, with no lesser fervour; Oghren is roaring his battle cry somewhere close to Wolf's growling; the flashes of light and fire mark Anders and Velanna doing their due.

The battle chaos slowly subsides as the number of the darkspawn diminishes. Nathaniel turns to thrust his blade into the last in his vicinity, only to be preceded by a dark blade of unusual design.

An unknown blade.

Glancing along the blade, at the gauntleted hands, the damaged chainmail, Nathaniel finally looks into the dead face of Kristoff, the Grey Warden, whose dim eyes glow with unnatural light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The elvish, according to the DA wiki:
> 
> Harel'an – a dreadful place
> 
> An'elgar'en – a place of spirits


	24. Secrets of the Soul

When the towers of the Vigil's Keep appear on the horizon, the company is invigorated: the straightened shoulders, the brightened glances – the signals of looking forward to homecoming.

_Home_.

Shifting in the saddle, Nathaniel cannot resist the overall surge of good mood; the familiar sight brings a small smile to his lips, without any pang of anxiety or pain.

_Home… rest. For a while._

_Homecoming is good, when one feels welcome._

And welcome they are: the courtyard is already full of people, cheering, waving, beaming with smiles. To his puzzlement, some smiles seem rather sour – only when he overhears the remarks and sees coin passing from hand to hand, he realizes that the time of their return was subject to bets.

_And we did make it back before the Yule celebration starts… tonight._

_Yule._

The main entrance to the Keep is decorated with fir branches, ribbons and mistletoe, and just as Nathaniel is dismounting, he sees one of the kitchen maids being kissed in the doorframe. Reflexively, he looks around but the fair braid is nowhere to be seen in the crowd – so far so good, since public displays are not very high on his list of priorities.

The commotion in the courtyard is somewhat overwhelming and Nathaniel feels sudden resentment as the events of the past weeks seem to be getting over his head.  _Really, would it be too much to ask for a les spectacular arrival?_

Apparently, it would: Wade has discovered their cargo, and squeals in excitement like a little girl. Impatiently, he struggles with the straps, until he finally releases one of the dragon bones and examines its glistening black surface with reverent fervour. Nathaniel quickly looks aside: as long as he lives, never, ever, will he forget how those things  _moved_ on their own to assemble.

To his disgust, Oghren already starts relaying his account of the "fucking toughest fight" to the circle of eager listeners. Nathaniel grits his teeth. He quickly hands the reins to a stable boy and attempts to retreat before his own role in the fight can be discussed.

Too late, though: his path is blocked by a sturdy obstacle in the form of a dwarf with a beard of an uneven length and burn scars in his face. "So?" he enquires, with his eyes glistening. "How did my babies fare? Did you have a chance to use them?"

"A good day to you too, Dworkin," Nathaniel replies. "Your arrows came very handy."  _When there was something they could actually hit, and when the blasted thing didn't tend to reassemble._

_Maker, living dragons are nasty enough, don't make me face a skeletal one again._

_Ever._

"– and the arrow just flew between the ribs, whoosh! and then, boom! Exploded on the hillside!" Oghren's prominent voice happily provides details.

Dworkin's face stiffens. "Do you have the slightest  _idea_  what niggling work explosive arrows are? I thought you were supposed to be good with a bow – no, don't even tell me what _bad_  skill looks like! You've wasted them all, haven't you?"

Nathaniel opens his mouth, to say –

–  _you think it's easy to hit a target that's mere bones, enveloped in a cloud of energy –_

–  _you think it's easy to even draw the bow when all of your body still shudders from the cramps of the previous lightning blast, and then you are hit by another –_

–  _you think it's easy to aim when your vision is blurred from shock and pain as you've never experienced before –_

Nathaniel takes a shaky breath. "I've got two left," he says.

The craftsman snorts. "I guess I should be grateful for that, huh?" He mutters something in the dwarven tongue and shrugs. "Alright, tell me the stats. Centred explosion? On time? Shall I tweak it somehow? Empower? Speed up? Delay? – Hey! Are you even listening?"

–  _the quiver has fallen from his hands, the arrows lie scattered on the ground, and he gropes for them blindly with numb fingers, knowing the seconds till the next blast are mercilessly running out, and he cannot take any more, Maker, no, have mercy –_

He looks into the dwarf's annoyed face. "I believe your arrows performed splendidly. One solid hit was enough."  _When I could deliver it_.

Dworkin snorts again, as if reading his mind, but then his burnt brows knit as he looks somewhere past Nathaniel. "Who's that? The guy seems somehow familiar."

_Unsurprisingly. Only the last time you saw him, he was still breathing_. "That's Justice. He helped us out at Blackmarsh. He's here to join the Wardens."  _Or rejoin, as it is_.

The dwarf assesses the newest Warden asset with a quick glance and shrugs again. "Little use for me, looks like a sword type… and kinda weird, if you ask me."

_A kind of an understatement, if you ask_ me _, but as long as no-one says 'dead', so far so good._

Justice attracts many a curious look, and rightly so. A shaved head, with Velanna's colourful shawl around the forehead and the ends hanging loose on the right side; a patch over the left eye while the other sports an unhealthy milky colour; black pigment, carefully dabbed on the cheeks in an imitation of a tattoo to mask the most prominent marks of decay…

" _If you don't want people to think about something, give them something else to keep their minds occupied,"_  Cousland said when they were planning Justice's entrée.  _"We cannot make him inconspicuous_ ,  _so let's go the other way round about it."_

And so they did, using every means they could come up with to obliterate Kristoff's likeness. The fact that the man had stayed at the Keep only shortly is an advantage; most of those who used to know him best are dead. Varel does look as if suffocating for the briefest instant; the rest of the audience, already attuned by Oghren's colourful account of the fight with the undead dragon, seem willing to forgive an oddity or two and embrace the new Warden hero.

_Just don't do the embracing literally. We did stuff him with odorant herbs wherever we could, but the smell is still there._

Nathaniel sighs inwardly. Be it the skill of the deceased Warden, somehow still pertaining within his earthly shell, or the powers of the Spirit of Justice, trapped within the said body due to a side effect of the demon's interrupted spell, Justice is a formidable warrior. The fight with the skeletal dragon might have turned out very nasty if it hadn't been for him – the dead body felt no pain, and Justice kept the beast engaged while the rest of the party was recovering from the excruciating energy blasts.

Gratitude or not, though, Nathaniel would rather not take Justice along, but the decision wasn't his.

_And if I could, I would have dumped the dragon bones into the marsh, useful or not._

_Luckily, the skull was too shattered to put the pieces together, or I bet it would end up in the main hall for display and I would have to watch it till the end of days._

_Blessed be the little mercies, right?_

Taking advantage of Dworkin's distraction, he starts his way across the courtyard. He is not the only one to try and avoid attention: both mages make for the Keep entrance as soon as they can. While Velanna's reservation is nothing unusual, Anders' haste to get away form the admiring crowd is rather untypical.

_Though understandable, given the circumstances. If anyone has a talent for meddling with the supernatural while ignoring the warnings, it must be him. First the revenant, then the undead dragon – what will come next?_

_Surely, we can't have known why the baroness kept dragon bones scattered around her garden, but…. Really, Anders, what were you thinking when you started to kick those bones closer to each other, even as Velanna was saying that the creature didn't seem entirely dead?_

The chance that Anders has learned his lesson, though, is rather slim.

Even as the mage approaches the entrance, lined with giggling maids, he treads self-confidently, with a cocky smile. Grabbing the first squealing girl, he swirls with her before taking the advantage of the custom and kissing her profoundly under the mistletoe.

The other girls don't wait for their turn and basically throw themselves on the mage – much to both Nathaniel and Velanna's vexation, since the doorway is now completely blocked.

Besides, there is nothing he desires more than a bath and a little time for himself, and being publically fondled by excited serving maids is even more unappealing than it would normally.

He sighs in relief when Anders with the flock of his fans leave but he is not free to follow Velanna inside, since from behind the door, Astrid emerges, with a provocative smile and blue eyes sparkling with mischief, and she presses her lips against his before he can protest.

For an instant, he stands frozen, until his lips part of their own volition and he reciprocates the kiss with unexpected hunger.

"Mmm… seems you missed me," Astrid mutters against his mouth as she briefly presses against him. "Don't eat the sausages, Norbert overstuffed them with garlic."

With a glint in her eyes, she departs, leaving Nathaniel feeling slightly dizzy, and in a much better mood than he would have thought possible.

Shaking his head, he moves to finally enter, but pauses in midstep, encountering Velanna's eyes, radiating cold fury. The next moment, the elf turns abruptly on her heel and leaves, and Nathaniel can only wonder what it was that upset her  _this time_.

Later at the dinner, however, when the Wardens are seated with the Commander at the high end of the table, the elf presents yet another swing of mood: dressed up in an open blouse over a low-cut bodice, her blonde hair, undone for once and glossy in the candlelight, flying around her head as she vividly debates with Anders about her willingness to find out more about the shemlen customs.

She is not the only one to become relaxed: the main hall, entirely bereft of its usual forlornness by the Yule decorations, is buzzing with talk and booming with laughter. Nathaniel does not remember such merriment from the similar occasions during his childhood: under Rendon's cold eyes, the Keep staff never really dared anything.

Inevitably, the Blackmarsh adventure is discussed for umpteenth time, much to Nathaniel's chagrin. A profound bath and a couple of hours' rest helped considerably, but he would still much rather leave the whole matter behind. Something about the way Ned keeps glancing aside, the small wrinkles around the corners of his eyes tightening every now and then, tells him that he is not the only one unhappy with the topic – either that, or it must be yet something else that makes Cousland as if lost in his own thoughts each time the conversation swings from him.

Unfortunately, Garavel seems most intrigued by the dragon fight, undoubtedly picturing himself in a heroic role, and even Mistress Woolsey has forgotten some of her stiffness.

_Such is the effect of the tales of dragons._

"Unbelievable," the treasure mistress clasps her skinny hands under her chin. "We can only praise the Maker that such a thing did not happen during the Blight, it must have been bad enough even as it was."

"Oh, the Blight was actually a good time," Ned retorts smoothly. "So… uncomplicated. We were the good guys, they were the bad guys, and the darkspawn didn't talk back."

Woolsey looks as if she has choked on a fishbone: according to the Keep gossip, she has no sense of humour and hates when Serious Matters are being ridiculed. Nathaniel has barely ever spoken to the woman but he is sure that Cousland  _must_  know this.

Pretending not to see the amused looks Varel and Garavel exchange, the treasure mistress presses the issue no further. As the rumour has it, her relationship with the Commander is civil at best and Nathaniel knows well enough how edgy Cousland can be while being perfectly civil.

The conversation at their end of the table stills but then, suddenly, there is a commotion at the door, the source of which turns out to be a man in the tabard with the royal coat of arms: a courier from Denerim. Nathaniel stifles a smirk, seeing Ned grab the letter with the royal seal like a child getting a favourite toy. He thinks no more of that, until his attention is drawn again by a burst of laughter, of unrestrained joy. Puzzled, he follows the sound to its source: Ned, his face as if lit from within, is reading something with an expression of pleased disbelief.

"Good news, Commander?" Varel asks with a smile that conceals a sort of almost fatherly affection.

Within a blink of an eye, Ned's face undergoes an ungraspable transformation: he is still smiling, looking pleased… but as if a window was covered with shutters, the light is gone. "Indeed", he replies. Getting up from his seat and raising his cup in a toast, he addresses the hall: "Listen, everyone! Good news from Denerim! Our king, Alistair Theirin, is going to be betrothed in the spring, to Lady Alanna Wullf, the niece to the Arl of West Hills! All toast to the king and our future queen!"

When the cheering and clapping somewhat subsides, Ned refills his cup and remarks with a wry smile: "I'd never thought that the old grumpy might turn out such a shrewd matchmaker."

Varel raises his brows. "That was supposed to mean Arl Wulff?"

A nod. "He was broken over his sons' deaths in the Blight. I never expected him to participate in the Denerim politics again, but one day he simply turned up, with this pretty sweet niece in tow." He raises his cup again. "Sweet and pretty and  _clever_ , I must say. She never pushed for anything but held back while Alistair was constantly on the run from the other young ladies keen on getting the crown, especially Bryland's Habren. As a result,  _he_  came to  _her_  – Alanna, not Habren, I mean." Laughter, and Ned sips his wine. "He did seem a bit smitten with her when I was leaving Denerim but I didn't imagine he would act so quickly, given how shy he is with ladies. That's a good sign, though, the realm could use a bunch of little Theirins real soon."

Bashing royalty is apparently not favourable with Woolsey, either, but Ned meets her disapproving look with an innocent smile and raises his cup to toast to her.

The conversation then shifts to Denerim gossip and the royal wedding and Nathaniel can tell for sure now that there  _is_  something else occupying the Commander's mind. And since Denerim doesn't seem to be the source, the answer is self-evident.

_Amaranthine. No good has ever come from there._

Drawing Ned's eye, he asks casually: "Any other… news?"

Hesitation, and a fleeting twisted smile. "Plenty, and less pleasant." Ned briefly presses his lips. "– But enough of that, today is meant for merrymaking." He grabs a flagon and sends Nathaniel a full cup. "Here, take a drink. Enjoy yourself. Relax. That's an order. We don't want our Yule celebration spoiled by your brooding."

_Bastard_. "Only if you do the same."

Laughing, Ned toasts to him, and Nathaniel cannot but follow. He drinks the wine, and then some more, throughout the evening, which gradually falls into a set of disconnected images, as the whole company is getting more and more drunk. The seating order is abandoned; mistletoe branches and kisses fly from one end of the hall to the other, and toasts take no end. Anders conjures a set of colourful lights under the ceiling while Oghren and Garavel's men roar bawdy songs. Mistress Woolsey, flushed in the face, intently listens to something Varel is whispering in her ear. When the music starts playing to dance, sergeant Maverlies leads the line of dancers circling between the tables and around the hall. A very drunk Velanna trips and lands on Nathaniel's lap, trying to kiss him under a shakily held mistletoe, claiming something about different brushes to paint the shemlen with. Seeing that, Astrid's eyes foretell murder, but since he in the end does wake in the bed with her, the danger must have been repelled, even though he has no idea how it happened.

Of course, he wakes with a mother of headaches, as well.


	25. By Any Means Necessary

The sun shining through the panes of the high windows lights a completely different main hall than mere days ago: the Yule decorations have been removed to the last fir needle, and the mood could not be any graver; grave even for a court hearing.

The hall is crowded again: a noble accused of a capital offence is a rare event, and each and every person of standing has arrived to attend with their retinue. Furthermore, the walls are lined with guards in a display of power; Anders and Velanna, unrobed but holding their distinct staffs, are stationed just next to the dais from which Ned Cousland, grim in black and grey, presides over the hearing.

Ser Temmerly the Ox, a bannerman to Lady Esmerelle of Amaranthine, stands accused of the murder of Ser Tamra.

From his position in the gallery, hidden behind a supporting column, Nathaniel has a perfect view of the gathered crowd: invisible dividing lines run between the individual factions. Even for such an occasion, the audience seems excessive; there can be little doubt that it is not the execution of justice but the political play in the background which draws the attention.

Everyone has their little plays and personal interests... even Nathaniel himself

Esmerelle and Eddelbrek, the two sworn rivals, are seated on the opposite sides of the hall, both prominent among the other nobles: Esmerelle in her lavish gold and green, Eddelbrek with his head of snow-white hair. Nathaniel respects the old man's principles but his sharp tongue and stubbornness make him somewhat difficult to like.

_If there ever was one who would like to see the Commander have the upper hand in this, it is him._

_The question is, though, how the outcome will affect the Wardens. The Commander._

His face showing no motion of the mind, Ned Cousland listens to Constable Aidan's account of the circumstances of Tamra's murder in her own house and the arrest of Ser Temmerly as the main suspect.

Despite the gravity of the accusation and the heavy fetters, Temmerly seems rather unperturbed by the atmosphere. With his massive bulk, he towers over the guards, even over Aidan, and the condescension in his features borders on an open insult.

_Not a very clever thing to do when dealing with Cousland. He doesn't take such slights well._

As soon as Aidan finished his account, Temmerly lets his temper get the better of him and bellows: "This is ridiculous. You keep me detained on the basis of  _this_ , despite my status? I am  _noble_. My word carries greater weight than defamation of a low-born  _constable_."

He makes the word sound like an insult and Aidan's pale complexion slightly flushes but otherwise he ignores the provocation. Ned Cousland does not respond, either, as he asks in a neutral tone: "If I understand you correctly, you deny the accusation?"

"Absolutely! The accusation is false and I have been detained illegally!"

Almost no change of the tone. "Do you deny the authority of your Arl, as well, then?"

Temmerly blinks several times before he responds in a more contained voice: "But of course not, my Lord. I am only angered by the insolence."

"Good. I happen to find the basis of your accusation sound and Constable Aidan's word trustworthy. You were arrested red-handed just in front of Ser Tamra's house even before her body went cold. Can you deny that?"

_Of course you cannot. Apparently, you never thought that the puny woman would put up a fight and took no precautions._

_If I could be sure that it was you whom I saw with those backstabbing thugs, I'd say I can see a pattern._

_If only it was all so simple, though. What Aidan has presented is sufficient for accusation but not for conviction, as the bastard knows all too well. If only I could be sure…_

"That was a coincidence. A few moments before I was passing her house, I had to defend myself against some thugs in an alley; hence the blood. I had no quarrel with Tamra, and I had no part in her death."

The murmur that rises at his words is quiet but approving; feeling the support, Temmerly looks at the Commander with defiance again.

_Too bad, as could have been expected. Nobles don't like one of their own being tried on a commoner's word… the Commander is treading a thin line here._

The outcome is easily anticipated. All Temmerly has to do is stick with his simple story, shrug off questions and defy other testimonies… and so he does. The court hearing is leading nowhere; the audience is starting to shuffle and whisper even before the last witness finishes.

Knowing his Cousland, Nathaniel is sure that he is seething with anger within; on the outside, though, the calm mask does not sport a single crack – an admirable feat, for one who has to bear Esmerelle, speaking emotionally on Temmerly's behalf of his moral qualities and loyalty.

Esmerelle finishes and all eyes turn to Ned again. Nathaniel tilts his head.  _Cursed if you do, cursed if you don't. Which way, then?_

Slowly, Ned rises from his chair. "The matter is serious," he proclaims in a grave voice. "A murder cannot go unpunished, but I cannot have an innocent man hanged on the basis of insufficient evidence, either."

Nathaniel sees smiles slowly spreading in the crowd, until they turn sour with the next sentence.

"Therefore, this court is unable to rule a decree. Ser Temmerly will be detained here, at the Keep, until a further thorough investigation brings new proof of his guilt, or confirms his innocence without a doubt. Constable Aidan, I charge you with leading the investigation –"

"You can't do that!" Temmerly's face has turned an ugly red. "You can't –"

"But of course I can," Ned Cousland does not really raise his voice but yet it pierces the upraising murmur. "It is in your very interest, Ser Temmerly, that the investigation is carried out by the most capable person available. Should a less apt person be assigned, it might take on indefinitely."

While Temmerly only gapes at the unexpected twist, Nathaniel cannot help but smirk: the chances that Aidan might follow Tamra's fate have just dropped considerably.

The question is if Aidan ever finds a thing.

Esmerelle is on her feet, protesting excitedly; in answer to her request, Ned resolutely shakes his head. Temmerly, looking frantically from one to the other, bursts out again: "This is a farce and everyone here knows it! You're just looking for an excuse to finish me off!" In distress, his voice sounds coarser – and, curiously, also higher pitched.

" _Finish me off!"_

Nathaniel holds his breath. " _Finish off the traitor_!"

–  _the cold sweat, the warm blood_ –

_Gotcha, you murderous bastard._

Not paying attention to what is being said next, Nathaniel makes for the stairs, to move into a new position.

_I have to see, see with my very eyes. Look into his eyes, see his face._

Behind, Esmerelle is still disputing something in a raised voice, which gets cut off by Ned Cousland's order, sharp and cold.

Nathaniel leaves the hall just in time to avoid the commotion as Temmerly, cursing and yelling, is being escorted to his cell.

On the way to the dungeon, they have to pass Nathaniel, standing in the middle of the corridor with his arms folded on his chest.

Seeing Temmerly fall abruptly silent and his eyes swerve when meeting Nathaniel's, makes the anger within coil like a snake ready to strike, and so he says: "The cells are quite cosy here… way better than befits a murderer. Have a nice stay, ser."  _Son of a bitch_. Then he steps aside to let them pass.

Temmerly mutters an obscenity in response but doesn't sound quite as self-confident as before.

_I know, and you know I do. And you will pay, eventually._

Nathaniel manages to let go the grip of the throwing knife in his sleeve only after Temmerly's back vanishes behind a corner.

He retreats to avoid the attendants of the hearing, and once they leave for their respective homes, it is time to report with the Commander.

Even as he is ascending the stairs, he hears a raised voice – to his surprise, Ned's, and sounding uncharacteristically emotional. Unsure whether to intrude or leave, Nathaniel hesitates, but then the door opens and Varel is about to walk out. Seeing Nathaniel, he motions at him to come in, announcing: "He is here."

Stepping into the room, Nathaniel can feel the tension, though he has no idea what might be its source. Both Ned and Garavel are standing, their eyes intent on him in a silent question.

"It was him," Nathaniel says more rasply than he intended, "I can be sure of that now."

To his puzzlement, Ned does not respond with satisfaction; instead, he turns abruptly and strides over to the window, which he pushes open. On the other hand, Garavel's face sets in an almost predatory expression.

"I believe that this settles our dispute, Commander. You have a witness of an attempted murder, which was a part of a bigger plot against yourself. You can squeeze him just fine."

"I said  _no_!" Ned's voice sounds hushed, and when he turns back from the window, he is ghastly pale. "I am very well aware that I cannot let this conspiracy brew any longer, let them get way with murders and attempts on those loyal to me… but no way we're doing this… as long as there is another way."

The captain snorts. "Another way? You can't honestly think that Temmerly will pour out his heart just because you ask nicely!"

A pause. "'Nice' was not what I had on my mind," Ned says softly. "I'd rather use some… persuasive arguments. A demonstration, maybe." Seeing Garavel frown, he slowly says: "The vaults… or the Deep Roads themselves… are quite impressive, wouldn't you say? Especially when one might run into their inhabitants."

Varel shuffles his feet but says nothing, and the captain produces an alarmed look. "But… that dwarven gate is safely closed, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is." Still the same soft, impassive voice. "But Temmerly doesn't know that."

Garavel raises his hand to his collar, as if it felt uncomfortably tight. "Are you sure, my Lord? Such… extreme measures–"

Ned laughs, humourlessly and sharply. " _Extreme_? You would put a man to the rack without hesitation, yet you have qualms about scaring him with darkspawn? You should try your methods on yourself for once, I bet you would take darkspawn any time!"

After a moment of stunned silence, Garavel clears his throat. "I meant less… obvious methods. Maybe slower but not so, er, obtrusive, and equally reliable to get a man screaming a little."

Another burst of that un-laughter. "Screaming is not the point here, captain. If you ever find yourself under such predicament, swallow your pride and scream at the top of your lungs, because as long as you scream, you do not  _talk_."

Fascinated, Nathaniel watches Ned's hands, which, in contrast to the impassive voice, tremble like those of an old man. Glancing at Varel, Nathaniel sees the seneschal slightly frown in concern.

Garavel, apparently too absorbed in his vexation at being rebuffed, sees nothing. "As you say, my Lord. Is that all?" Receiving a nod, he turns on his heel and storms out of the room.

As soon as the captain is gone, Ned turns back to the window, gasping. Then, as if all of a sudden he was reminded of their presence, he mutters over his shoulder: "You can go, too, both of you. No talking about this, with anyone."

The dismissal doesn't sit well with Nathaniel, since more than just a couple of questions press on his tongue, but he thinks better and follows Varel outside. Only then, having made sure that no-one is around, he asks in a low voice: "If this plan of his doesn't work… he intends to have Temmerly… questioned? Is that wise?"

Glancing around, the seneschal replies barely audibly. "As you have heard, no talking. It could be disastrous if word of this got out. Technically, the Arl has the right to put a conspirator under duress, but it would be politically… inconvenient. – Though it would serve the bastard right."

Nathaniel has to clench his teeth, to prevent them from being bared in a feral smile. The next remark, though, unsettles him much more: "You're really one big deal of a trouble."

 _Oh, thanks so much_. Nathaniel is well aware that it was his word that pushed the scales in Ned's decision, but he fails to see how getting stabbed is somehow his fault, and the reproach has touched a sensitive spot. "What do you mean?" he asks coldly.

Varel looks back over his shoulder. "For him."

Another well-placed prick. "I never meant to –"

"No, you didn't." The seneschal sighs. "Don't get me wrong, I have nothing personal against you… but I still think it would have been the best for everyone if you had stayed in the Marches."

 _And here it goes again, for being who I am_. "I offered to leave. He can send me away any time."

A snort. "You know he wouldn't do that."

Even more irritated, Nathaniel retorts: "So what am I supposed to do, slit my throat?

Varel sighs again and then shrugs. "Too late, I'm afraid," he remarks with a wolfish grin. Then his face softens. "He's putting a lot of faith in you. Don't fail him, he needs good men around."

 _Why, weren't you just sending me back to the Marches? That makes the compliment sort of back-handed._  And so he counterpoints: "You seem weirdly protective."

Seeing the older man at a loss is satisfactory, but then Varel spreads his arms in an innocent gesture: "Well, he is easy to like, isn't he? Aren't you willing to go into quite some length for him yourself?"

 _It seems that a prolonged stay in Cousland's presence has a detrimental effect on one's own personality. People start emulating those clever twists of his_. "I'm not going to propose to him, but I guess I get your meaning."

He receives a surprisingly warm smile. "Always good to know where we stand." With that, Varel leaves; Nathaniel looks back at Ned's door one last time, pondering that under other circumstances, he might go back and knock.

Two days pass without a stir or a word of Temmerly, to Nathaniel's growing impatience. Yet, when he is unexpectedly summoned to the Commander at a late hour, the anticipation he feels is rather an unpleasant one.

As he enters, he finds Ned sitting by the table, tending to his sword; his glass on the table is half-empty, and by the looks of him, it's not the first.

"Take a seat," Ned doesn't look at him, concentrating on the movement of his hands, polishing the blade with an oiled cloth. He does not look up even as he says softly: "Temmerly's dead."

Speechless with shock, Nathaniel only stares at him, and Ned continues in a seemingly calm tone: "He hanged himself in his cell. Whether he was so dedicated to the cause… or my demonstration too persuasive… I never thought he had it in him, to slip out like that... never thought of this option."

Finding his voice again, Nathaniel asks: "Did he really do it himself?"

A nod. "Anders is sure." Then, suddenly, Ned raises his dark eyes to him. "I made a mistake. Yet another. I'm empty-handed again, and the viper may freely laugh and scheme behind my back."

Unsure how to respond, Nathaniel says nothing, and Ned resumes tending to the blade again, the runes in the steel faintly shimmering under his touch. "It's  _her_  dance, and I keep screwing the steps. Time we started to dance to a tune  _I_  know best." Slowly, he slides his hand along the length of the blade. "Time to do what I excel at."

Nathaniel feels his heartbeat speed up. "You have a plan."

"I have a plan." Putting away the cloth, Ned takes his glass and empties its content with a single swig. "But for this plan to work, I need a bait." The firelight glistens on the blade as it slightly shivers in his hand. "A bait."


	26. The Exercise of Vital Powers

The air of the vanishing day is chilly but mercifully still: despite the warmth of his fur cloak and protective runes, the cold of the two days and nights without fire has crept into Nathaniel's bones. Shifting in his lair of boughs and snow, he draws the furs closer to his body and aims his attention at the quiet estate in the valley again.

Too quiet, actually: no sounds of domestic animals, no servants scuttling over the yard, trying to perform their tasks as quickly as they can.

It would be definitely suspicious, had Nathaniel not seen himself the servants and cattle evicted to a couple of barns near the meadows about two miles off along the creek.

_One doesn't risk witnesses when planning an assassination of their liege, who is the best friend to their monarch._

_One doesn't leave anything to chance, either._

The main building of the estate, various barns and sheds… all hiding armed men, waiting for a signal when their victim arrives. Nathaniel knows exactly how many and in whose colours; he watched them gather, each and every one.

_The Stark farm. What an inconspicuous, cosy place chosen for the drama that is to unveil._

* * *

" _They will be cautious, after Temmerly," Nathaniel muses. "It might take months before Esmerelle attempts something again."_

" _I know." Lazily rocking his glass, Ned is leaning comfortably in his chair. "I'm going to give her an incentive. She has no children of her own and her heir is her cousin's son… my sources tell me she is rather fond of him. So I'm going to inform her that I would like to have the boy here, at the Keep, as my squire."_

" _Which she can hardly refuse to her Arl."_

" _And which she cannot allow to happen, either."_

_Sipping from his glass, Nathaniel smiles for himself. Developing on plans with Ned Cousland is incredibly easy: a thought follows thought, each smoothly following the set course. "That sets roughly the time; what about the place?"_

_Ned nods towards the heap of map scrolls on the table. "That's what I hoped you might help me come up with. I was thinking about our dear friend Lady Packton – so eager for lands and riches. It would make sense if I targeted her…"_

* * *

_I'm afraid this venture will cost Lady Packton more than just a well-doing estate_ , Nathaniel ponders. Her reaction to the accusation of shifting milestones and encroaching on her Arl's land was very predictable: may the Arl come himself and inspect her lands, she will be most happy to host him under her roof.

_Only she would serve him cold steel instead of dinner._

The number of the soldiers brought to the farm makes Nathaniel check their plan, step by step: a single mistake would be paid dearly, and he cannot allow that.

_The Commander relies on me. He entrusted me with his life._

_What an irony again._

Yet, the trust put into him fills him with warmth, deep inside, and helps him pass the hours of the cold night…together with the warmth of Velanna's body, curled next to him, as they take shifts in watching and sleeping.

A mild breeze has risen, driving along clouds which obscure the moonlight every now and then:  _a good weather to carry out the plan_.

Then, finally, the signal comes: an owl sounds somewhere down the hill, so skilful that Nathaniel is not sure whether it is a real bird or not. He listens intently, counting the heartbeats. Then the owl hooting sounds again, twice. Carefully crawling over Velanna, who shifts but does not wake, Nathaniel leaves the lair and responds. Moments pass, and then the owl sounds softly once more, close to his right.

"Here," Nathaniel whispers.

A white shape rises from the snow: the scout, Danella, in a broad white cloak. "The men are in position. Any change?" she speaks softly only after she has crawled to him.

"No. The guards are as they were. They don't expect a thing."

Danella looks at the estate: two windows are still lit, as those behind probably polish the last details of their scheme. "Good. Can we go on as planned?"

"Yes. Go get them, I'll fetch Velanna."

The scout crawls off: a quiet white shadow.  _Good that the Commander didn't let her rot in prison, such talent is better put to use – not to mention the undying loyalty he inspired in her._

The rest is incredibly easy.

Guards, bored and huddled in their cloaks, watch the gate and access road. A dozen quiet shadows, grey and white, glide along the fences, through the orchard, over the palisade. In the storerooms, the upper parts of the emptied shed and barns… everywhere no soldiers are positioned, unwelcome guests have found cover for the rest of the night.

Finding himself a comfortable spot in the straw above the pigsty, still reeking of its previous inhabitants, Nathaniel smirks: though considerably warmer than outside, the snow lair now actually seems preferable.

A rustle, as Velanna makes her way through the straw. "Keeping such foul animals is a stupid shemlen custom," she murmurs to his ear.

"No pigs, no ham," he whispers to her ear, driving away the irrational urge to nibble her pointed earlobe. The two days spent together watching the farm, often close to each other for the sake of warmth, have produced many an urge like that. Nathaniel is no fool, though, to act on such urges at a moment like this, and especially not with someone like Velanna.

_To approach Velanna with something like that is the best way to get oneself roasted._

"Take a nap, I'll keep watch," he suggests, and to his surprise, the elf doesn't protest but curls next to him instead.

The time passes by. Velanna takes over the watch and Nathaniel manages some sleep, to wake to the grey light of the winter day, and to the commotion in the yard.

"They're coming!" he hears someone yell; there are running feet, and snapped orders. Nathaniel feels his pulse speed up:  _it's come_.

Through the slit between the planks, he can see Lisa Packton greet the Commander; with a part of his retinue, he follows her inside the house while the rest remain to tend to the horses.

The stables, as Nathaniel knows, are packed full, and not just with horses. "Get ready," he whispers to Velanna.

He barely finishes the sentence when there is a shrill whistle, and the ambush is sprung: the hiding soldiers rush at the men from the Keep.

The front wall of the pigsty vanishes in an explosion. With a smooth movement, Velanna jumps out through the opening, death issuing from her fingers in cracks of lightning and streams of fire. Nathaniel follows, his two blades cutting at the flesh of the stunned men:  _ambushers are ambushed themselves_.

At the opposite side of the yard, the roof of a barn is engulfed in fire, together with the crossbowmen hiding behind its top: Cera's apprentice, despite being a scrawny brat, is a veteran of the battle of Denerim, and knows his work well. Before the men on the opposite roof can aim him, he disappears through the hole in the thatched roof of the stable again, only to dispatch a new wave of fire at them from the hay door a moment later.

A group of soldiers, previously hidden in the smithy, charge at Velanna, probably determined to bring the mage down at any cost. As they run, a slender figure in a white cloak emerges from under the heap of caskets in the corner of the yard and throws something under their feet: a deafening explosion of Dworkin's special produce sends the men flying. With a shrill howl, Danella draws her daggers and disposes of the single soldier who has remained standing.

The fight is won even before it started proper.

Swirling around, Nathaniel checks for any living enemies: finding none of importance, he dashes to the door of the house.

Unnecessarily: the door opens; Oghren, splattered in gore, walks out leisurely swinging his axe. "What, no fun left for me? We're done inside."

Sweeping past the dwarf, Nathaniel enters. The main hall of the estate looks like a slaughterhouse: the floor is strewn with bodies. A quick glance reveals no casualties among the men from the Keep, except Varel, who is seated, leaning against a column while Anders is tending to his arrowed shoulder. Ned Cousland, from head to toes stained in blood, which is apparently not his, is standing in the middle, with his arms folded on his chest, watching a bunch of nobles being tied by Garavel's men.

_Some familiar faces here._

Lisa Packton. Ser Timothy. An auburn-haired man Nathaniel vaguely recognizes as one Ser Anthony. And Lady Esmerelle, Bann of Amaranthine – her hair dishevelled, bleeding from a cut on her forehead, the blood dripping on a chainmail instead of her usual lavish robe. Her eyes shine wildly, and if looks could kill, Nathaniel has little doubt she would be more proficient with them than with daggers.

To Ned's raised brow, Nathaniel brusquely nods: "Dealt with," and receives a nod in reply.

"Traitor! Traitor of your father's blood!" Esmerelle yells at him, as she realizes what Nathaniel's involvement must have been.

"That's enough," Ned commands her coldly. "You have proved your dedication to the late Arl's cause sufficiently and you will die for that, no more histrionics needed."

Esmerelle doesn't heed him. "You are a spot on the Howes' name – both you and that whore of a sister of yours! To think I put such an effort into luring you back from the Marches to exact your revenge…"

Nathaniel feels his jaw drop but he has no time to dwell on that as Ned laughs dryly: "'Twould seem that your own scheming helped to dig your grave, milady." Turning to look at each of the captives, he addresses them all. "For breaking your oaths of fealty and attempting to murder your liege, your lives are forfeit."

The conspirators watch him with defiance and Esmerelle spits on the floor. "You are no true Arl, you have no authority over us!"

"I have every right I need," Ned retorts calmly, "and I'm going to exact those rights on you for all of Amaranthine to see. Those pikes above the gates have been empty far too long."

Timothy mutters some desperate curse and Liza starts trembling, but Esmerelle seemingly calms down, her green eyes narrowed. "Pity that Rendon didn't gut you along with Bryce," she hisses.

"Watch your tongue." The change is Ned's tone is tale-telling, but Esmerelle is already too carried off with her eagerness to deal the final blow.

"And what will you do, Cousland? Kill me twice? I'm not going to crawl like your mother did when Rendon made her kiss his boots before he –"

Nathaniel feels his breath catch in his throat.

_No. Not this._

In the stunned silence, Ned moves like a striking snake, and his gauntleted fist connects with Esmerelle's face with an audible crack. Her head flies backwards and only due to the guards holding her she remains standing. Blood spills down her chin, followed by some more as she spits out the splinters of her teeth. Her eyes widen in shock, and the first time, they show fear – fear which turns into horror, as Ned's hand grabs her by the throat.

"You will shut up, viper." The voice sounds like none Nathaniel has ever heard from Ned – high-pitched but strangely hushed, and it sends chills down his spine. Then, as Ned turns his head towards the other captives, Nathaniel sees his face, and the chill is replaced by sweat-inducing heat.

_Oh, Ned… Maker be merciful._

Ned's face, always so calm and controlled, is twisted in a mask of uncontained fury.

The three nobles, their jaws dropped in shock, crouch before him.

"You three will be now transported to Amaranthine where you will publically confess your crime and will be executed. The manner of your death is solely up to you. Make a nice, clear confession, and you will get the sword, and I'll also let your families inherit. Defy me, and you all will hang – slowly. After that, I will not stop until I have exterminated every single one of your progeny. I  _swear_."

" _Until I have exterminated every single one, like my family was,"_  Nathaniel hears, and he is apparently not the only one.

Only then, in the complete silence, Ned seems to become aware of the choking sounds that Esmerelle is issuing, and he lets go of her. Without as much as a single look at her as she crumples in the guards' grip, without even looking at anyone in particular, he adds: "Not a word of this. Ever."

At his gesture, the guards take Lisa, Anthony and Timothy out. Nathaniel feels he should leave, as well, but his feet as if froze to the floor. He watches Ned's tense back, his balled fists, and ponders desperately what to say – now, or later, or ever after.

_Doomed. Doomed whenever I start again from scrap._

_Maker, let this be over…_

But prayers are hardly ever heeded.

Finally catching her breath, Esmerelle looks up at Ned. She is pitiable now: her defiance and her dignity seem to have shattered with her teeth.

The wrath she has unleashed is not spent yet, though.

Ned stares back at her. "You," he says, still in that unnatural voice. "You and I are going to talk now. Profoundly. And you will tell me all that you know about – about that night at Highever. Or – " Checking himself, he takes a breath. "Everyone out now. You stay, Garavel – to assist. If needed."

The remaining two soldiers head for the door immediately, letting Esmerelle sink to her knees. On unsteady feet, Nathaniel is about to follow, but he hesitates as he sees Varel get up with Anders' help and turn towards Ned, not to the door. "Commander," the old seneschal says softly. "My Lord…"

"Out!" Ned repeats, without turning. His eyes never leave Esmerelle, and she shrieks in terror, her words muffled by her broken mouth: "No! I don't know anything else! I don't–" her eyes flicker around wildly. "Nathaniel, help me! Tell him nothing else happened!"

_Oh, Maker._

Ned turns his head sharply and his eyes narrow.

Nathaniel is unable to say a word, his tongue sticking to his palate. Involuntarily, he lowers his head.

Slowly, Ned turns to Esmerelle again and she crouches on the floor. "She did what Rendon commanded her because he told her he would make Bryce's passing worse, but then Bryce died, and – and – "

Very slowly, Ned bends to her, and despite her attempt to evade, takes her by the throat again, almost gently. "And?"

Esmerelle is almost sobbing. "He – he let the soldiers h–have her – but – but – they were careless and she managed to grab a dagger and killed – killed herself – and – that's all he told me, I swear! Please, I don't know any more!"

"You don't." Nathaniel didn't think Ned's voice could sound even worse than before, but now it does. "Would you perhaps remember if I called a couple of those soldiers back, to serve you likewise? Or perhaps –"

"My Lord."

_Varel._

"My Lord Cousland…  _don't_."

For a long moment, Ned freezes, looking at the bleeding, sobbing woman whose throat he is holding.

Then he releases his grasp, and Nathaniel finally lets go the breath he didn't know he was holding.

No one moves, until Ned straightens. "Finish her off and collect the head," he orders Garavel. He avoids Varel's eyes, and passing Nathaniel as if he wasn't there, he walks out.

Feeling Anders and Varel stare hard at him, Nathaniel drops his head even lower: he can't imagine how he will be able to look into their eyes after this again… into anyone's.

_Into Ned's._

Turning abruptly, he makes for the door: he needs air, he needs to get away from this all, from the smell of blood and bowels and the words which cannot be unsaid.

The sound of a drawn sword and a sobbing gasp do not make him even pause.


	27. Meditation On the Abyss

The Chantry is chilly and bright, the sunlight passing through the coloured glass in the high windows sending multicoloured speckles all around.

Ned Cousland is standing where the light does not reach, before the altar with the statue of Andraste. While her arms are spread wide to embrace the Maker, his are folded on his chest, as if embracing himself.

Painfully aware of his loud steps, Nathaniel makes for the altar. He lights a candle at Andraste's feet and kneels down for a short prayer; then bracing himself, he gets up and turns to face Ned.

After a moment, Ned's eyes leave Andraste's face and bore into Nathaniel's: a cold, blank stare. His lids seem swollen, but otherwise, his face might be that of a statue, as well.

Under the weight of his stare, Nathaniel drops his eyes.

"You knew." A flat, colourless tone, yet concealing an accusation.

Nathaniel forces himself to meet the stare. "I did," he admits. Words stick in his throat. "Once when he was drunk… he boasted of it before Delilah. That part… about your father dying on his knees." He has to swallow before continuing. " And that he made your mother kiss his boots." He hesitates again but unwilling to risk another backlash of withheld truth, he finishes: "He had all the bodies burnt on a heap of refuse."

He sees muscles ripple on Ned's jaw but no other response comes.

"I never meant to… cover up his crimes. He didn't tell any details, and I and Delilah thought… we thought that if we told you this…" Nathaniel feels his palms are beginning to sweat. Suppressing the urge to clench his fists, he takes a deep breath. "I thought it would be better for you not to know."  _Please, believe me._

Silence.

"I… we only meant to… spare you the pain."

_Spare what you are going through now. What my fault has brought on you._

Ashamed, Nathaniel lowers his head again. "Forgive me," he mutters hoarsely.

Still silence, until Ned's eyes move again to Andraste's exalted face. "I… appreciate your intention… misplaced as it was." A heavy pause. "Is there anything else I ought to know?"

"No. Nothing I would know of."

A quick, burning look. "Are you sure? Is there no more to it? Nothing else that yet another viper might unleash on me when I expect it the least?"

Trembling inside, Nathaniel drops to a knee. "I swear before the Maker –"

An impatient gesture. "Oh, come off it! I –" Ned's voice wavers. His eyes wonder over Nathaniel's head, to Andraste again. "A single clean death was apparently too much to ask." His lips tremble and then press tight, before they bare the teeth in an angry grimace. "After all, what did I expect?" Jerking his head, he spits on the polished tiles before the altar and then turns on his heels to stride out – or rather, flee.

Stunned by the outburst, Nathaniel does not move, until, finally, he bends and wipes the spittle with his sleeve. Guiltily, he looks back over his shoulder.

Andraste, of course, does not respond.

Remaining on his knees a little longer, Nathaniel contends a mixture of chaotic feelings, the strongest of which is that of an acute loss: he has lost something precious, and he wants it back.

Being sent to the Keep with the group that accompanied injured Varel, while Ned and his retinue left for Amaranthine to carry out their grim task was understandable, even the fact that no-one ever mentioned his name: Ned simply handpicked those he wished along and ordered the rest to return. That Garavel was set in charge was logical: the mission was the business of the arling, not the Wardens as such. Being the target of sideway looks and gossip behind his back was harder to bear, but he had been through that before.

Being the source of Ned's torment for his own deeds, not father's, was a knife twisting in his soul, and the reason why he sought Ned immediately, even though Varel had advised to wait.

He gets up quickly as he hears the door creak: Mother Dorine, who took the post of the ancient Ellinor of his childhood, is a stranger to him, and he doesn't want her to see him kneeling with his back to the altar.

"May the Maker grant his Lordship peace," she mutters as she passes him, her eyes shining with curiosity which Nathaniel is not going to sate.

 _Apparently, tongues have been wagging all over the Keep_.

"Truly so," he replies, barely keeping himself from snarling at the woman.

 _Peace_.

On the surface, the life in the Keep goes its usual way, with the Commander addressing the daily issues as the need arises… addressing even Nathaniel, and if he is somewhat taciturn, well, he has had such phases before and no-one seems to think anything of that.

Only, Nathaniel constantly feels the detachment; like a house with shutters closed, keeping everyone out and not letting see what lies behind – even more so that Ned addresses him solely in the company of others, never alone, never with anything else but the matters of daily business.

Seeking for an opportunity to talk privately, to sort this out, to set things right, only confirms Nathaniel's suspicion: Ned is intentionally avoiding him.

Yet, every now and then, he can feel Ned's eyes on him: over the hall, in the courtyard, during the councils… only to move away whenever Nathaniel looks at him.

In the following days, he grows tense and restless: no-one and nothing in the Keep seems to be able to set him at ease. Astrid's embrace provides only physical relief and the issues of the mind fall on a deaf side:  _this will pass, why bother_. Velanna, so supportive on the way back to the Keep, exhibits one of those inexplicable flings of moods and turns him away with cruel jabs. Varel keeps to the same old advice, Anders is too full of his latest advance to listen for earnest, Oghren offers the only console he knows, and seeking out Justice at his secluded post under the Keep brings Nathaniel only a lecture on failures and atonements.

 _Atone_. He would gladly atone, if only Ned told him what he wants him to do.

_Whatever. Even if I should be sent away. Just… stop this._

_You trusted me, not so long ago, remember?_

Finally, he resorts to the one thing that always helped. Not bothering with asking Varel for a key, he raids the armoury for about a dozen of throwing knives and retreats to the training room in the basement, in the sunny weather entirely empty. There, he puts up a target and tests the weight and balance of the knives, trying to select the best. The activity demands focusing and keeps his thoughts off Cousland, but as soon as he finishes, the lump in his stomach is back again.

Cursing, he strides to the armoury for another batch to test.

His bad mood keeps him distracted, and so he realizes someone's presence only after rushing into the room and closing the door behind him.

 _Oh_.

Of all people, Ned Cousland.

Standing in front of the rack with practice swords, and apparently startled by Nathaniel's arrival.

And the startling immediately disappears behind the closed shutters.

 _Again_.

This time, however, Ned has nowhere to escape, but tries nonetheless, turning to leave. "Ah. Sorry. I didn't realize you were training here. Do not be disturbed."

Nathaniel feels very much like gritting his teeth.  _No. No way you're leaving without sorting this out._  And, since the opportunity virtually presents itself, he offers: "Never mind. If you want to practice with a sword, I can easily adjust. 'Been neglecting my sparring, anyway."

For a moment, it seems that his offer will be accepted, but then Ned's eyes swerve and he shakes his head as he says, somewhat tensely: "Thank you, but perhaps later. I wouldn't be a good partner today."

The excuse does it, and the long-built tension breaks out in a dark, violent wave. "Dammit, Cousland! How long do you intend to go on like this? I can understand if you hate my gut now but why keep me around if you can't bear the sight of me any more, huh? Does spiting your brother really mean so bloody much to you?"

Seeing Ned's jaw dropped in shock feels perversely satisfying – for that instant before he suddenly slumps on the bench by the wall and buries his face in his trembling hands.

Nathaniel uncertainly looks at the door he was about to slam open, then at the man again. With a sigh, he turns back, puts the knives on the floor and walks over to sit on the bench next to Ned, leaning with his elbows on his knees.

After a moment, Ned raises his head and looks at him, as if puzzled. Nathaniel is ready, reciprocating the look without flinching, and then says softly but firmly: "Either send me away, or stop avoiding me."

Ned's eyes swerve for a moment. "Do you wish to be sent away?" he asks, and the question is tinged with tension.

 _What's this supposed to be about?_ "No." Frowning under Ned's enquiring gaze, he blurts, further irritated: "I thought I made it clear that I wish to serve Ferelden, and I would like to stay close to my sister, but if I'm constantly inconveniencing you –"

"You're not inconveniencing me," Ned interrupts him, somewhat hastily… _somewhat nervously?_

"Then what the – "Nathaniel takes a breath to calm down. "I made a mistake and hurt you unintentionally but I was under the impression that you accepted my apology. Was I wrong, are you still angry with me? Or is this about what father did? I can only repeat that – "

"No." Ned also takes a breath, but rather as if preparing for something. He straightens. "I should have asked more clearly. Do you still want to serve Ferelden under  _my_  command?"

Nathaniel blinks several times, dumbfounded, before he straightens, as well. "Why shouldn't I?"

Weirdly, Ned's eyes swerve again. He leans against the wall, staring before him. "When you approached me to allow you to join the Wardens, you said you could respect me. Well, can you still – respect me? After what I've done?"

Finally, things are starting to make sense. "You mean, this wasn't about me but  _you_?" Nathaniel asks in disbelief. "Does it really matter so much to you what I think of you?"

Ned glances at him. "It does," he says simply. "Out of those people who were there, only your – and Varel's – opinion really matters." Another breath. "The respect of those  _I_ respect."

Pondering the unexpected twist, Nathaniel feels a surge of warmth, spreading from within, but then Ned says softly: "You haven't answered my question."

 _No evading_. "I would respect you less if you did go through with your threats… but you didn't. You stopped in time."

"Varel stopped me."

"No.  _You_  stopped. He just snapped you out of the frenzy."

"Frenzy," Ned repeats softly. "That's what it's called? That urge to tear people to tiny twitching pieces and wade in their blood?" He swallows hard. "I – I did stop, but – but – Maker help me, I  _wanted_." A pause. "Still might, if I allowed myself to dwell on it too much."

A wave of chill runs down Nathaniel's spine. "But you didn't. That's what matters."

"I  _wanted_ ," Ned repeats with a clear tone of horror, and disgust, in his voice. Suddenly, he turns to Nathaniel. "Have you ever felt such an urge?"

Nathaniel has to shake his head. "No. Not even when I wanted to avenge father. But if – if someone harmed Delilah like that… I do not know what I would be capable of."

A grim, snapping laughter. "Well, I already know what I am capable of, or so I thought. I lied, I broke my word, allied myself with a known kinslayer and killed without mercy… but I didn't know I had it in me to knock out the teeth of a restrained woman… or nearly have her tortured and violated."

"You couldn't let her get away with it," Nathaniel points out softly. "No matter what you ordered, men did talk, and  _they_  would think less of you if you didn't retaliate in some way. As it is, the common opinion goes that the viper got what she deserved."

Ned grits his teeth. "I know," he grunts. "One would even think they might actually  _cheer_  me for what I did. What would I have to do to fall out of their good graces, rape their virgin daughters? Somehow, I have a feeling they might find an excuse even for  _that_. Really, does one have to become a complete monster so that their eyes finally opened? For some, Loghain was still a hero even after he was exposed for what he was. I wonder if he ever – " He stops abruptly. Glancing at Nathaniel again, he slowly folds his arms on his chest, transfixing his eyes to a point somewhere off beyond the walls. "Before this all started… before the Blight… I wouldn't think myself capable of any of those things… and now that I've done them, I've noticed that every single one makes the following somewhat… easier."

Nathaniel shifts uneasily. "Well, I suppose that during the Blight, you did what you had to. 'Anything to stop the Blight', that's what us Wardens are expected to do, right?"

"A convenient excuse, isn't it?" Ned speaks softly, without emotions, but the tension he keeps under control emanates from every fibre of his being. "And yet, there were times when I didn't have even  _that_ … I did things because I  _wanted_ , not because I had to."

Unsure how to respond, Nathaniel remains silent.

After a moment, Ned adds even more softly: "I dread to think where this might end… what I might become. And… what father would have said."

Feeling a lump in his throat, Nathaniel has to avert his eyes, and as he does so, he suddenly feels he can breathe more easily. Copying Ned's poise, he leans against the wall and stretches his legs, but overcomes the urge to embrace himself against the world. "Well,  _my_  father would be thoroughly disappointed with you because of your misgivings."

He feels Ned tense in shock and then become more relaxed, as he realizes the implication. They sit silently side by side, until Ned remarks after a while: "It never ceases to amaze me how he might have sired a man like you."

"I suppose he also must have wondered what went wrong." To his surprise, the light conversational tone comes naturally… almost. "Thomas was more to his liking, I guess… but from what Delilah told me about his drinking, he probably wasn't up to the requirements, either." Nathaniel pauses, recalling the face obscured with time. "I cannot be sure, though, we were never close as brothers should be."

Listening attentively, Ned voices Nathaniel's own thought: "You think he meant for Thomas to replace you as his heir?"

"It kept haunting me. I was assuring myself that the day when the succession would matter was still far away and that I would be found worthy meanwhile, but still." The idea seems unbelievably ironic, and he snorts. "Be found worthy, by  _him_. Would you believe that I really thought the fault was with me, somehow? When I was a child, I wasn't aware of it much, or maybe he was different then, but as I was growing up… It seemed that nothing I did could ever please him. I was too soft and meek and a shame to the Howes, and I could never figure out what exactly it was that I did wrong, or what I should do the next time. When he decided to send me off to the Marches to get some schooling, I actually felt relief that I would finally learn to be what he wanted me to be."

"How old were you?"

"Fourteen, and I desperately wanted to be my father's son."

"Haughty, cold and ruthless." In contrast to the words, Ned's voice is full of sympathy.

Nathaniel nods. "Though, at that time, I was rather thinking in the terms of 'proud, stern and decisive', since I never realised that the fault was with  _him_ , and couldn't see him for what he was."

"But it didn't go as he had planned."

"No, it didn't. He sent me as a squire to the household of one Sebastian Sartori…  _Comte_  Sebastian Sartori, if you happen to be familiar with the name."

Ned thinks for a while, then shakes his head. "I was never much into the Marches' nobility."

"You didn't miss a thing. – Well, Sartori. He was some business acquaintance of father's, and little wonder they took liking to each other, since he was cold like a dead fish, but shrewd. I came to hate him within a fortnight, and there is but one good thing I can say of him: his master of arms was an excellent teacher."

Glancing at Ned, he notices that he has shifted, to lean against the wall with his left shoulder and face Nathaniel, and so he moves likewise. "Well?" Ned urges him to continue.

"The next two months, I was rather unhappy, since I couldn't understand why father sent me there. Then, however, something really unpredictable happened. Sebastian got wet in a storm and ended up with a profound cold, which developed into pneumonia, and he succumbed to it a few days later."

Seeing the look of understanding in Ned's eyes, he nods again. "Exactly. His heir, his cousin Claude Sartori, was a  _very_  different man." This time, Nathaniel smiles at the memory: the stay with  _the_  comte, the  _real_  comte, marked the beginning of the good times in the Marches. "I hadn't met him before, since, as you can imagine, the two of them didn't keep in touch, and he was rather surprised to find me there. Unpleasantly surprised, I can tell in retrospect – he wasn't familiar with my name but apparently didn't think much of his cousin's acquaintances. Still, though, he took over Sebastian's obligations and, the first time in my life, I was asked what I wanted. The naive sob I was, I blurted that I wanted to become a true nobleman, so that father could be proud of me."

Ned chuckles softly, anticipating the next course of the story, and Nathaniel laughs, as well. "He gave me a very weird look, I can tell you, but replied that he would do his best to help me achieve that goal."

"In other words, he affirmed those very qualities your father sought to eradicate." Ned's eyes sparkle with amusement. "Life's so full of irony, isn't it?"

 _Ironic, where the twists of fate bring us_ , Nathaniel thinks, smiling at the man he meant to kill, so long ago, in another life.

"Did you stay with Sartori the whole time?" Ned asks.

"No, only shortly, in fact. I suppose he must have anticipated father's reaction to Sebastian's death, and he arranged for me to stay with the Montessoris of Starkhaven, and a couple of other prominent families, to 'establish connections'… but no matter which family member he referred me to, they were all men worthy of my respect… like himself." Nathaniel feels his lips curve in a smile. "I made quite a tour of the Marches… that was a good time."

"Quite a long time," Ned observes. "Did you never visit home?"

"Once." The memory is bitter even now. "I needn't tell you how it went, do I? Father packed me off as soon as he could, claiming that I was put to better use in the Marches than over here. Thomas mocked me for that and I broke his nose. Father was livid, and I sulked, since he made it clear that I was unwelcome at home until I 'learned manners'." Nathaniel pauses, feeling the past dragging him back, to the dark currents. "That was the last time I saw him alive," he says hoarsely. "We barely wrote to each other, and that out of obligation, mostly. When I learned he was dead… I guess I acted mostly out of remorse."

A sudden intent look in Ned's eyes. "How did you learn what happened?"

" _To think I put such an effort into luring you back from the Marches to exact your revenge…"_ Nathaniel recalls, feeling suddenly the stone wall behind him too chilly. "I was staying with the Montessoris again at that time. The marquis showed me a letter from a friend of his, from Kirkwall… I never suspected Esmerelle was somehow involved. Basically, it said that there was a coup in Ferelden, using the Landsmeet as a pretence of legality, and that my father, as Loghain's most prominent supporter, was murdered prior the Landsmeet to cow the opposition. I did ask among the Fereldan refugees for more details, but nothing I heard really contradicted that."

"I see," Ned says softly. "What did Sartori say to that? Did you consult with him before you left with wrath in heart?"

"He had died. He was killed in a pirate raid to his property, two years ago, while I was with the Vaels."  _And, in a way, it hit me more than father's death. It was guilt that drove me to revenge… guilt for not being a good son, for my hurt pride that kept me from trying to overcome the distance between us, for enjoying the life I had had in the Marches._

_Guilt, and empty pride of the name so stained already._

_I'd never have admitted this to myself, then._

Nathaniel falls silent. Ned, his eyes lowered, doesn't speak, either: he seems transfixed, watching his hands, but when they clench, he shudders and looks up with a startled expression.

The memory of Esmerelle, suffocating in the grip of those very hands, brings up another matter that has been plaguing Nathaniel. "So, Esmerelle made sure she incited me against you without her name being involved, and then plotted on to murder you, to avenge my father?"

"She claimed as much when she sprung the trap."

"But why? What did he do to inspire such loyalty in her? Could she really, you know…  _love him_?"

"Who's to tell?" Ned's voice is unnaturally flat again. "Maybe he promised her to make her his Arlessa after your mother died. That would be a good reason for a grudge against me. Though, from the gossip Varel supplied me with, it does look that he was an old flame of hers."

"Well possible," Nathaniel has to admit. "You know, I learned of them even before I was sent to the Marches, when I overheard some servants chatting. Of course, I saw the fault with mother, for being cold to him, and with Esmerelle, for being a scheming whore. That tryst went on for years, Delilah made quite a couple of hints at it whenever she wrote to me, since she hated Esmerelle with a passion."  _As did I. How many times did I think of planting a fist in her teeth myself, whenever I saw that smug smile of hers?_

_Yet, when I did see it happen…_

Each lost in his own thoughts, they sit again in silence, side by side but miles away, each locked in his own past.

Finally, the silence becomes unbearable, or maybe it is just the cold wall behind his back.

_Things are as they are. Time to move on._

Shifting, Nathaniel turns to Ned again. "So, what now? For my part, I'm done with brooding for today. How about my initial offer? I could use some sparring."

"A little sparring, bleeding each other's nose and ending up the best buddies over a bottle of ale?" Ned says softly, almost longingly. "Not today, I'm afraid… my dear Howe. I guess I do need some more time brooding… to come to terms that I've become a womanbeater, and that having an upper hand over my brother does matter to me more than it should." He looks at Nathaniel with a tinge of a smile. "In a couple of days, though, Wade will have finished my new sword, from that ancient dragon's bone, and I will need to test it. So, if you think you'll still be willing…?"

"To risk my hide against you? Sure. Any time."

Ned smiles again, for real this time. "I'll take care not to hurt you… much."

"Don't be so damned cocksure, Cousland. You'll be the one getting the beating."

A raised brow. "That sounds like a challenge."

"You bet."

"Deal."

Snatching the knives on his way out, Nathaniel almost flies up the stairs, unable to suppress an idiotic happy grin.


	28. Conflicts of Interests

The blade passes so close that he can feel the hiss of the parting air on his face. He ducks and parries but the blade is immediately bearing down on him again.

He is already sweating and feeling the first signs of fatigue slowing him down.

_This has been going on long enough, damn you._

_And damn the idiot I am._

With a quick move, Nathaniel disengages, raising his gloved hand. "Enough."

Ned, the damned bastard, is  _sneering_. "You're getting sloppy, Howe."

"When you said you wanted to test the blade, I didn't mean to let you test it on my neck, Cousland."

"A bit grumpy, aren't we?"

"You can abandon your vain efforts, you won't taunt me into another round."

"About high time, if you ask me," Anders remarks from the corner where he is stationed 'in case of casualty'.

"Nobody askin' you," Ned and Nathaniel respond in unison.

Ned swirls the blade in a broad arc and puts it back into the unadorned sheath. "Unbelievable. I've always known Wade is a true master, but I never  _imagined_ … I've never had such a master blade crafted specifically for my hand. It feels like an extension of myself…"

Nathaniel has to agree, though somewhat sourly. Already familiar with Cousland's fighting style, he is fairly sure that he could bring him down, with a little luck… but not when he is wielding that light blade which moves as if of its own volition. His own sword, even though of the finest steel, feels clumsy by comparison. "You should try it on something you can actually cut into."

"I'm afraid there won't be many volunteers," Ned remarks dryly.

"Ah, never mind, we haven't had a darkspawn raid in, how many? Two days?"

Ned sighs, and seems to be considering the blond mage as his next target for a moment.

Nathaniel only grunts: the frequency of the darkspawn attacks has been increasing, and so has the number of disquieted land owners demanding that the Warden Commander "do something".

Occasionally, when the darkspawn are spotted in time, he does… at other times, the track is already as cold as the bodies. The attacks are concentrating around the centre of the arling, but finding the source has been easier said than done so far.

In sobered mood, they leave the training hall, and Nathaniel is looking for something to say to divert Ned from the gloomy thoughts. "You're damned fast with that new blade but the shield will eventually slow you down in battle. Why don't you switch to training with two blades, to utilize your speed? With your build, I really don't understand why you started with the shield at all."

The pause in reply tells him immediately that he picked the wrong topic, and when Ned finally answers, he feels like biting his ass: "Because when I started my training, Fergus was already proficient with sword and shield, and I had to have the same as him."

Seeing his embarrassment, Ned reaches to touch his shoulder. "Never mind. A good shield bash has saved my life a couple of times, and I doubt that I would ever become as good with two blades as you are."

As they exit into the courtyard, a more agreeable digression presents itself in the form of Astrid, dismounting and heading towards them with a bag of missives.

Or rather, agreeable for himself, as Astrid presents him with a letter signed in Delilah's prominent handwriting, whereas the Commander receives a stock of missives which undoubtedly contain reports of further darkspawn attacks, land disputes and demands for compensation.

"I bet you're faring better than me with your letter," Ned remarks, seeing Nathaniel eagerly unseal the vellum.

"You'd win," Nathaniel has to admit, feeling the corners of his mouth rise in a happy grin as a wave of warmth surges from within. "Delilah is back in Amaranthine, for good, as she writes. She sends her thanks and regards, by the way."

"Give her mine when you write her, or would you like to make a trip to the city to give her a brotherly welcome?"

Riding under the pikes decorated with the heads of Esmerelle and her cronies is something Nathaniel would like to avoid a little longer, and so he says: "I think she might use some time to get settled in her old home again. I'll write her, and see her the next time we have some business in Amaranthine."  _Just normal business, no more executions, I hope._

In the pause that ensues, he glances around for something to divert the conversation, and his eyes rest on Astrid's hips, swaying with her long strides as she heads for the stable. His thoughts, though, are abruptly interrupted as he feels a nudge in his ribs. "Don't stare like that, or Velanna will get a fit again."

Uncomprehending, Nathaniel glances in the direction Ned indicates, at Velanna standing at the battlement, overlooking the courtyard. "What do you mean?"

Ned  _– I hate you, Cousland, you know? –_  starts laughing so much that he nearly doubles over. "What, you've never noticed that you're fair game?" Wiping the tears of mirth, he shakes his head at Nathaniel's incredulity. "Really, you can blame only yourself. You were showing you were  _interested_ since the very beginning, so there's little surprise that she started reciprocating the favour – and then you went for another. No wonder she's throwing so much tantrum whenever she sees you with our lovely messenger."

Unsure how to respond, Nathaniel looks at the battlement again but the elf is nowhere to be seen now, and so he picks up the remnants of his dignity: "I'm sure you're absolutely wrong. I've only tried to be friendly with her."

"Ah, sure – all that miladying and lovely brushes and what not. You're a lousy liar, Nathaniel. You'd better sort it out, or she might fry your head along with the darkspawn."

With one last smirk, Ned leaves him standing there, feeling like the biggest fool of all.

 _Could I really be_ so _blind?_

 _And, what's worse, was I really_ so _obvious?_

Throughout the day, he manages to convince himself that Ned simply can't be right; yet, in the evening, as he is lying in his bed with Astrid, trying to catch his breath after a rather fast ride, she remarks: "Could you do me a favour? Next time you're around Miss Pointy-ears, tell her to stop shooting eye-darts at me, will you? I don't care if you screw her on the side when I'm off on errands, but if she keeps acting like she has some claim over you, she'll get her due, mage or not."

Befuddled, he fails to respond, and Astrid rises on her elbow to see his face better. "You thought I wouldn't figure out? I said that I don't mind, so –"

"No! No, Astrid, it's not like – I mean, I don't – I never –"

He sees her frown a little in the candlelight. "You mean you're not screwing her? So what's her beef with me? – Oh, I see. She's mad because you're  _not_  screwing her?" She falls on her back, laughing, and Nathaniel wonders if  _she_  is screwing someone on the side.

The thought is not amusing in the least.

Sobering, Astrid turns to him again. "That's good to know, though I didn't – Oh, never mind." And, since he remains silent, she adds: "Just so you knew, I stick to your bed, as well."

"That's… also good to know," he replies cautiously.

"Sure. And safer." She pinches him playfully but as he pulls her closer to him, she falls silent and says only after a while: "Look, I'm not stupid, Nathaniel. I know that I have no right over you, and never will. So, if you do want to screw her… just do it on the side, please, so that I don't have to watch her all over you like she was at the Yule feast."

Nathaniel stirs uneasily, remembering Velanna's half-open bodice at the feast, and the warmth of her body pressed to him under the furs, during their cold watch over the Stark farm. Feeling Astrid tense in his arms, he pushes the thought aside and slowly runs his hand along her back, cupping her buttock. "There's just one woman I want in my bed."

She looks at him for a moment, her expression indiscernible, and then her eyes narrow with mischief. "How about proving it here and now?"

"I thought I just have?"

Astrid cocks her head. "A poor excuse. Besides, I saw you oggling her tits. – She does have a pretty pair, for an elf, most of the elf wenches I've seen were flat like a board."

The truth of that can hardly be denied, and Nathaniel remembers all too well the sight of Velanna's rosy hardened nipples in the autumn wood, after they barely made it alive from the Architect's trap.

But it's definitely not a memory he should share, and so he replies casually: "I'm definitely not letting the quality of her bosom override my common sense as to the quality of her character."

Atrid snorts. "The quality of her character has nothing to do with the quality of her cunt, you know."

"I'm not particularly inclined to explore the depth of either," he retorts, but even as Astrid starts giggling, pressing her cheek helplessly to his chest, he finds himself wondering for a moment if he actually didn't tell a lie.

When Astrid recovers from the fit of laughter, she pokes him with her forefinger. "So what shall we do about your dear friend Velanna? I'm telling you, she's really annoying with that drama of hers."

"I'll try to reason with her when an opportunity presents itself," Nathaniel promises. "I can't guarantee any positive result, though, she's totally unpredictable."

"How very convenient," Astrid sneers, shifting to put her leg over him. "Aren't you actually turned on at the thought of the two of us having a catfight over you?"

 _Hardly._ "I'd think you already know what turns me on."

"Hmm… I'm not sure," she says thoughtfully, her hand already wondering to the places well-explored and driving away any inappropriate thoughts of Velanna. "Should I try to come up with something?"

"By all means, do," he mutters, even as her hair caresses his flank and the warm lips slowly tease their way lower to meet the hand.

Much later, when the candle is a mere puddle of molten wax, Astrid whispers in the dark: "The men are talking in the barracks… is that true that the Commander is going to take you on another expedition soon?"

"Most probably. He can't let the raids go on like this much longer. We have to search the centre of the arling all and through, and hope we find that hole the darkspawn crawl from." _Though it will take ages and if we don't know where to look, the chances of success are next to zero._

Astrid sighs and puts her arm over his chest, snuggling closer to him. "That will be a long time, I'll miss you…" she mutters, and then, suddenly, embraces him tight.

"I'll be back," he whispers hoarsely, feeling uneasy at the unspoken emotion. "Maker might be merciful for once and let us find some clue soon."

She neither replies nor releases her embrace: Maker rarely listens to such pleas.

Yet, two days later, it seems that He has, for this once: His mercy takes the form of Constable Aidan, arriving with a small retinue and bringing along two hunters, apparently uneasy in the presence of the Commander of the Grey and more than glad to leave once he is done with questions.

"Knotwood hills." Leaning over the map of the arling in concentration, Ned is the embodiment of contained energy to be released. "Here, exactly," his finger follows the course of a stream cutting into the highland and then diverts between two hills. "There's supposed to be some chasm, and in the chasm, remnants of stonework. It must be an access into the Deep Roads."

"As you say." Oghren accompanies his words by a usual belch. "Don't expect me to know my way around, though, I ain't got no idea what's down below from up here. Once we get there… well, we'll see."

"We'll see," Ned repeats, glancing over all of the gathered Wardens, with the look of a hunter on the right track. "It's high time we put an end to this. Pack your gear, we're setting out tomorrow."

Nathaniel doesn't sigh, though he much wants to: the winter has not released its hold yet and the weather, though not particularly frosty, is still far from comfortable. The rest of his companions do not seem to be bothered by the prospect: Anders is way more worried about Ser Pounce-a-lot's wellbeing during his absence, Oghren is apparently looking forward to the fight, Justice's face, as usually, shows nothing except slightly peeling skin, and Velanna… Velanna watches the map as if only that piece of thin parchment separated her from the reunion with her sister, however unlikely it is.

Nathaniel quickly averts his eyes. With her cheeks flushed in expectation and her eyes shining, Velanna is…

_Pretty._

_Pretty and stubborn, and…_

The memory of the clumsy kiss under the mistletoe keeps haunting him ever since the debate with Astrid. He hasn't make good on his promise to talk to Velanna yet, feeling terribly awkward about approaching her with this.

 _What if they_ are _wrong, after all?_

_I'll talk to her after we leave the Keep. Outside, in the open, she is always much easier to talk to; much more at ease, much more… friendly…_

_Friendly._

" _I have only tried to be friendly to her."_

Once he retreats into the privacy of his room, Nathaniel throws himself on the bed, with a groan.

_Nathaniel Howe, you bloody liar. She does turn you on, and faults of character have nothing to do with it in the least._


	29. A Race Through Dark Places

The staircase reaches the bottom of the chasm, and Nathaniel exhales with relief. Whoever constructed the crude structure apparently had some weird notions of architecture, or safety.

_Little wonder, given that they were darkspawn, if what those hunters who had chanced on this place claimed was true._

_Of course it's true. Who else would bother building something like that here?_

The chasm sports a dark opening further on, looking even more ominous on the cloudy day. Nathaniel expects a hail of arrows from there any second, but the darkspawn, confident that the remoteness of the location will maintain the secrecy of their entrance route on its own, do not bother with guards against unwelcome visitors.

_Or they are waiting for us to enter the dark, their natural element. They are intelligent, staircase-building darkspawn, after all._

The memory of the Architect's laboratory makes him shudder.  _Is the bastard somewhere down there, as well?_ Judging by his companions' grim expressions, their thoughts probably follow the same trail. Wolf seems the only one without any worries about the future, and Velanna… Velanna looks excited, as if her lost sister was waiting just behind the nearest corner. Her eyes shine, her cheeks are slightly flushed, lips parted…

Nathaniel quickly navigates his thoughts and eyes to their surroundings, though with an all too familiar pang of guilt: he still hasn't made good on his promise to talk to Velanna. The occasions were less frequent than he had expected, and Seranni the only topic the elf could be engaged in. And, since a trip to the Deep Roads is not be the best place for such talks, he will have to wait till they make it back again… if they do.

They approach the cave-in with their weapons ready, carefully treading among the remnants of weather-worn stonework. Nathaniel recognizes the style of the ancient dwarven craft from the Kal'Hirol outpost under the Keep; from what he can discern, it seems more ornate here, once worked to flawless perfection.

No darkspawn hide in the dark mouth of the revealed corridor or beyond; nothing moves and the Warden sense remains silent. The thin cover of fresh snow shows no tracks but from the shape of the frozen layer below, Nathaniel can read what they already know: many feet, going in and out.

Once they climb over the worst pile of rubble, the corridor is straight and broad, with a complex frieze of geometrical patterns running on both walls, mostly unmarred by time.

'We must be really close to the thaig," Oghren mutters. "The sods did keep their place nice."

"Shh," Nathaniel hisses.

The daylight hasn't even vanished behind their backs when there comes the sound of running feet, further along the corridor, and the characteristic tug at the mind, announcing the bearers of the taint. The next moment, a circle of blue light appears, illuminating a figure ensuing from the crossroads: a short, sturdy figure, running, panting, and falling to the floor with a scream of anguish after having tripped, while the darkness behind her splits into taller, twisted shapes reaching their claws at her –

_Her. The voice was female._

Nathaniel does not stop to ponder what the female dwarf might be doing here; for his enhanced Warden sight, the darkspawn are an easy target. The arrow pierces the darkness, followed by a bright arc of lightning from Anders' staff, jumping from one monstrous body to another, leaving them charred and twitching on the floor. Behind the bolt and arrow, the Wardens follow, their runed blades burning the corrupt flesh.

Soon, the encounter is over – even sooner for the darkspawn's weird behaviour: instead of taking advantage of the dwarf's fall to kill her, they try to drag her away.

_Her._

The implication is sickening.

Meanwhile, the dwarf is already on her feet, feeling her ribs.

"Are you injured? Let me help," Anders says in a way of greeting.

The dwarf's eyes glisten in the blue lamplight, and she removes the helmet to show her tattooed face in the grimace of a child just about to receive a candy. "You are a mage, right? I've never seen a mage! Will you heal me with your magic? How do you do it?"

As they are soon to find out, the happy curiosity is a defining feature of Sigrun, a scout of the Legion of the Dead. Her tone barely changes as she speaks about the massacre of the Legion, though Nathaniel is not sure whether her light-heartedness is not merely a coping mechanism: from her account, the situation down in the ruins of Kal'Hirol must have been desperate. Nonetheless, she definitely seems to be recovering from her experience very fast. While the Wardens are discussing the new aspect to their mission, Sigrun makes use of the time to become acquainted with Wolf – a peculiar feet for one who has never seen a dog, not to mention a mabari, before. The dog – surprisingly, or perhaps not – takes her advances well, and decides to show her his newly born affection as profoundly as he can.

In hindsight, Sigrun's reaction probably could have been expected; at the time being, it is a source of a rare sight of Ned Cousland pausing in mid-word, as Sigrun returns the favour, even though neither her tongue nor the amount of saliva can match Wolf's.

Raising her brows at the momentary silence, she states: "Well, given that we are going to spend some time together, and perhaps die together, I think it best to become friends with Wolf. The darkspawn will flee before his foul breath!" To his offended whining, she adds calmly: "And I will assist you, of course. I haven't cleaned my teeth in ages, and that deepstalker meat I ate last is probably still crawling in my stomach."

"Your help will be appreciated, Sigrun," Ned says softly, "but I won't force you to return to where you have just escaped from. You have done what you could."

"I could only ran, so I did, but now with you Wardens, I can do more, I think," the dwarf retorts as if she was discussing a picnic. The smile that forms on her lips is unexpectedly sweet. "Besides, what can happen to me when I'm dead already?"

_You would never believe. We already have one dead person along, after all._

With Sigrun's lead, they quickly proceed along a main tunnel, into what used to be the glorious city of Kal'Hirol proper.

The thaig surpasses all Nathaniel's expectations. The lamplight doesn't reach very far but the glow of the occasional streams of lava spreads wide and far, marking the size of the largest cavern Nathaniel has ever seen, and much larger he would have believed possible. Some of the stone structures are in ruins but others are still standing, proving the breathtaking skill of the ancient masons and carvers against the destruction and time.

Passing the decorated walls, Nathaniel feels somewhat dazed, both with awe and with disgust over the film of black tainted moulds here and there, and so he notices the weird veils in an alley in between only when Ned alerts them: "Spiders!"

Spiders.

The biggest and ugliest creatures Nathaniel has ever seen, except the Children in Blackmarsh.

Facing the attack from several sides, Ned, Oghren, Wolf, Sigrun and Justice form a circle around their small group, allowing the mages and Nathaniel perform their ranged attacks from relative safety – relative, as they find out soon when one of the monstrosities bears from the darkness above their heads right on Anders.

The mage goes to the ground with a panicked scream, and Nathaniel drops the bow and draws his short blade to hack off one of the beast's legs. Sigrun, with almost dancing steps, appears from the other side and chops off another with her light axe. The next moment, she somersaults aside as the beast turns its abdomen to her and emits a heap of thick threads, sticking to the ground and to Anders' kicking legs.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Nathaniel plunges the blade deep into the beast's body but its convulsion tears the hilt from his grasp. Gritting a curse between his teeth, he produces the throwing knife from the sheath on his forearm, painfully aware that against the chitin shell, it is highly inadequate.

A wave of intense cold covers his arm with hoarfrost, freezing the spider just as it is about to sink its mandibles into the mage, but the triumph is short-lived – two more giant spiders come down, ejecting the sticky threads. Nathaniel dodges only partly, nearly tripping as his right leg gets caught in the unbelievably strong web.

"Get down, everyone!" he hears Anders yell from where he is lying under the frozen spider, and barely manages to do so before a stream of fire flashes through the darkness. With a hollow crack, the spider explodes; another monstrosity, set afire, writhes violently on the floor. The fire travels up the threads hanging from the nearby buildings, lighting the surroundings with a temporary blaze.

No more spiders come after that, and once the last is hacked to pieces, the only sound is Anders' cursing as he is vainly trying to remove the web from his legs.

With a grin, Oghren offers him his bottle of ale. "This will do the trick, ye know?" Looking over his shoulder at the Commander, he adds: "Funny how you big folks are pansy 'bout this critter stuff," he remarks.

The look Ned pays him as he is removing the gore from his armour is less than friendly. "If nearly suffocating under the webs counts as 'pansy' in your book, then you're welcome."

Instead of being put down, Oghren's grin widens. "Well, not as pansy as that mage of yers… man, she did curse when the stuff got stuck in her hair! You would think someone grabbed her tits, I can tell you…"

Finally realizing that the look has gone from annoyed to murderous, Oghren falls silent just at the moments when Anders mutters: "Not when grabbed by the Commander, I sup –"

The mage bites on his tongue a moment too late. Ned's eyes narrow, yet he resumes cleaning his gear, speaking in a flat, blank tone: "None of your business, Anders."

To overcome the embarrassing moment, Nathaniel grabs the bottle from the mage and releases his leg from the web, to retrieve his sword from the remnants of the spider. "You fight well, Sigrun," he remarks. "The Legion trains its members excellently."

"Oh, there is no training and such," the dwarf retorts, looking up at him with her innocent, doll-like eyes, "that's just the tricks which you pick up living in the streets, fighting for your life and scraps of food, you know."

"He wouldn't know, he's a sodding noble," Oghren grumbles, all too happy to make someone else look a fool.

_Oh, thanks so much, I'll remember that._

Luckily for Nathaniel, Sigrun doesn't pursue the topic. "That was a nice trick," she pokes with the tip of her boot at the smithereens of the spider. "We usually just cut off their legs from under them and then split them in halves. Can you do it again if necessary?"

"I hope I won't have to," Anders mutters. "Having a single spider all over me as almost as bad as hiding at a Templar latrine." As he becomes the target of several suspicious glances, he spreads his arms. "I only  _considered_  it, once."

Unsurprisingly, the mage's hopes are quickly proved wrong as they make their way through the vastness of Kal'Hirol, encountering more spiders, darkspawn and deepstalkers… and the first casualties from the Legion, one of them still alive but dying on their hands.

After that, Sigrun falls silent.

Following a rising ancient route, towards what must be the citadel of Kal'Hirol, Nathaniel watches it with anxiety. The dying dwarf's news of the breeding grounds leave them no choice but try to infiltrate the place and destroy the broodmothers, but their chances at escaping alive are quickly diminishing, even if they manage to find a side entrance.

He can feel it in his bones that whatever they've been through so far was just a prelude.

He is right, of course: in the citadel, there are golems… and Children.

Not just those giant woodlice from Blackmarsh but woodlice which have grown longer legs and claws and stand taller than Wolf, and their attack is accompanied by the ground-shaking stomps of animate stone figures, crushing everything that does not evade in time. When the fight is over, everyone is breathing rapidly and bleeding, and Nathaniel wonders if he only started to hate critters as a Warden, or if he has always hated them and only never knew. As for golems, they seem somehow too profound to be hated, and admitting himself that he is scared of them is an idea that Nathaniel cautiously leaves for future examination.

Anders checks on each of them, leaving minor injuries to Velanna to tend to. When he is done, he sinks to the wall, uncorking a lyrium flask with shaking hands. "Not sure how often and how quickly I can repeat the performance," he says without a trace of his usual humour.

"We've got through the main defences." Ned's voice sounds somewhat weaker than usually. "We'll wait a little to catch our breath and move on. Keep those little presents from Dworkin as the last resort, should we need to clear our way out fast."

 _Fast?_ Nathaniel doesn't want to think how deep underground they are, and how long it would take them to reach the surface: if the heavy resistance behind the entrance means a thing, they do not have to bother about the way back at all. He cautiously feels the gash in his side which Anders has just closed. Even with the healing spell, he will have to favour the side in fight; quickly healed wounds keep giving trouble, thus further reducing their future chances.

"Does it still hurt?" Leaning over him –  _too close, or not?_  – Velanna doesn't wait for a reply and puts her hands on his shoulders, sending a wave of rejuvenating energy.

"Er – thank you," Nathaniel says, looking into her eyes, golden-green like sun through young leaves. Nodding, Velanna keeps his eyes a little longer, then stands up abruptly.

 _Maker… I have to talk to her. When we get out of here. If we do. If we don't…_  Briefly, he closes his eyes.  _Come on, Nathaniel. Don't give in. No-one else does… And no-one else seems to give a damn to that filth around. Move on._

Forcing his hands not to clutch, Nathaniel grits his teeth instead and then quits even that, attempting to breathe regularly, though not too deep, as even the air itself here feels _filthy_. The descent into the darkspawn den does not seem half as unnerving as his response to it. Fighting the darkspawn in the open is something he got quickly accustomed to; clearing the Keep's underbelly was merely a few hours' business in a couple of caverns and corridors; escaping the silverite mine was different because they were heading  _out_ , while here…  _these are not even moulds covering the walls but some slime, and here it looks almost like raw flesh…_

_Come on. Don't be a – a pansy. Right. Never mind that stuff. Traps, lures, darkspawn. That's your business here. You mustn't make a mistake._

_It would all be easier, though, if only the place wasn't so… so…_

_Come one. Come on. You've been soaked in all kinds of gore before. This is nothing a bath wouldn't set right._

_A bath. A kingdom for a bath._

_Or some darkspawn to kill, as a distraction._

Realizing the ridiculousness of his wish, Nathaniel barely manages to suppress giggles which would undoubtedly draw undue attention. Curiously, though, it's a wish that doesn't seem to be granted: they encounter only very few darkspawn; suspiciously few.

"I don't like this," Oghren mutters, squinting his eyes to see through the shadows in the corners. "The place is too soddin' empty. It reminds me…"

"Don't remind of that." Ned, tense as rarely before, is slowly turning round. "There  _are_  darkspawn," he assesses, "a lot of them, further off… but really far, I can barely feel them. I guess we… Justice? What is it?"

The dead Warden – spirit –  _whatever_  is standing with his head tilted, as if listening to something. He turns the glazed eyes to Ned. "There is… a song."

"A song? Like in, darkspawn throwing a party?" Anders shakes his head. "So, that's why there's no-one around! The buggers are celebrating without us! You think they mind if we don't stop for a drink?"

 _I think we will find out soon enough_  –  _too soon, in fact. Though I don't want to think about what it is they might be drinking._

They do, but something entirely else. Oghren just glances and produces an appreciatory whistle, while Anders quickly takes a step back: "No, thanks, I like my brain the way it is."

Nathaniel steps closer: a bucketful of lyrium is not something he would see on a daily basis, and here it is not merely a single bucket: rows and rows of casks and barrels, emanating a faint blue glow.

"It… sings…" the dead vocal chords produce a tone of uncertain disbelief, so much different from the cold, evaluating notes Justice likes to spew around, asked or not. "I…"

"Later. We'll investigate this later," Ned commands. "Let's move on, if I'm not mistaken, such an amount is safe for no-one."

"And let's hope that no-one will lift the stuff while we're gone," Anders comments.

Ned gives the lyrium storage a thoughtful look, and Nathaniel guesses his mind. "You're not thinking about transporting the stuff to the Keep, or are you?"

"If we manage to clear the thaig… not today, definitely, but with that safegate just under the Keep, I believe there must be a direct way to this place. Once those darkspawn incursions stop tying our hands… such a fortune would solve our problems with the arling's economy for good. We could easily repair what has been damaged…"

Thinking of the burnt farms and defiled fields, Nathaniel has to admit that the idea is correct. He heaves a small sigh, looking around, at the dark layers covering huge portions of the wall and emitting a weak feel of the Taint.  _I'm a Warden. Such places should not scare… no,_ repel _me_.

He startles, feeling Ned's hand unexpectedly touch his shoulder. "We'll get out of here," Ned mutters solely for his ears.

Glancing around and seeing the others occupied by examining the riches and the weird devices in the room, Nathaniel asks softly what has been on his mind for some time: "How can you bear it? How can you bear returning into  _this_?"

Ned hesitates, and then says barely audibly: "I've been through such and worse, and lived, and I have no intention to die here this time, either." Brusquely, he turns on his heel. "Let us get going," he commands. "We have darkspawn to kill. We might miss the fun if we don't hurry."

Hurry they do and proceed much faster than expected, but it seems that Ned was not entirely right: the  _fun_  is rather spoiled, as it seems that someone has done most of the killing for them.

"Didn't you say the Legion didn't make it past the defences?" Ned frowns, examining the dead darkspawn."

"How would I know? I ran, remember?" This time, Nathaniel is almost sure that the light tone is feigned, but then Sigrun adds: "Some must have broken through, though, because these darkspawn didn't just off themselves, or did they?"

Surprisingly, her estimate is right, as they find out as soon as they enter the next hall.

"Darkspawn fighting darkspawn?" Anders apparently doesn't believe his eyes. "Over what?"

"Who cares? Let's get at them while they're distracted!" Oghren grumbles, readying his axe, but Ned grabs him by the shoulder before he can charge.

"Why bother? Let them do our work for us for once!"

Nathaniel is not sure but feels as if Justice's inexpressive face emanated disapproval: he probably doesn't agree with Wardens lazying.

_Your bad, pal._

Cutting down the few stragglers, they move on… and down, to whatever awaits.


	30. Intersections In Real Time

"Phew. That was a fucking tough bastard."

No-one comments on Oghren's statement, though Nathaniel has little doubt that they think it a huge understatement.

_More like, 'this was pretty close'._

Their fast progress through Kal'Hirol, cutting down those few stragglers surviving the attack of the other darkspawn faction, came to an abrupt halt when they ran into golems once again… into one particular golem.

' _Tough bastard' doesn't even start to cover that._

Nathaniel clutches his hands to prevent them from shaking. The remnants of the golem-thing that glowed with fire underneath its crust are scattered wide and far around the hall after its explosion, still scalding hot to the touch, and the small company of Wardens is scorched all over.

As if reading his thoughts, Oghren addresses him: "Not of yer brightest ideas, blighter. 'Worked once, will always' is not a universal recipe, ye know?"

_But it did work, nonetheless… luckily._

Had Nathaniel had the time to stop and think, it might have occurred to him that a combination of Dworkin's arrows with lyrium explosives and of magically sustained fire could lead to unexpected outcomes; in the heat of the fight, however, all that mattered was to bring the monstrosity down.

"If you'd have preferred to get smashed  _and_  roasted, you should have said so." Oghren glares over the burnt bridge of his nose but Ned, his hair sizzled on one side, turns to Nathaniel instead. "It was a great shot. I haven't seen a heat-issuing golem before and I was beginning to worry how we might deal with it if we couldn't get anywhere near."

"For some it was still close enough," Anders mutters, tending to Oghren's burns. The dwarf with his heavy axe, as well as Justice with his broadsword and inability to feel pain as a bonus, were the only ones who could actually engage the golem while the others served mostly as a distraction not to allow it near the mages.

For one who never got in touch with the heat and flames, Anders seems somewhat grumpy. "This whole trip is getting a lot more complicated. What else we might run into, huh?"

_More darkspawn… though, as long as they are at each other's throats, I don't really mind._

_Speaking of darkspawn…_ the one cheering effect of the exploding golem is that it almost entirely cleansed the area of the Taint: mere touch of the flames removed the layers of the black moulds, much to Nathaniel's delight.

Assessing the highly satisfactory damage, he receives Sigrun's approving nod. "That's how we do it in the Legion – only, we leave the area first."

 _Oh. Thanks for enlightening me._ Even so, Nathaniel is almost sorry to leave the place and plunge into the filth of the darkspawn-infested thaig once again.

As they proceed, more and more often they come across groups of fighting darkspawn instead of mere corpses and their progress slows down, waiting out the outcome of the clash to deal with the survivors.

_Soon, we'll have to do the job on our own again. A pity._

None of them wishes to speculate just now what the presence of talking darkspawn in both factions might signify.

For the time being, they have yet another reason to worry.

It starts with an ungraspable, ticklish feel at his nape, even thought there seems nothing and no-one to watch him; soon enough, his skin is prickling and there are movements in the shades, visible only with a corner of an eye, and an echo of voices just below audibility.

"The Veil is thin here," Justice remarks softly, and Wolf whines in confirmation.

Anders curses. "Darkspawn, golems, Children… do we have to deal with demons, as well?"

Ned slowly shakes his head. "Not demons. Ghosts. Look."

The images emerge from the shadows, pale and shapeless, their outlines growing sharper at a fleeting glance. Their voices sound like murmur behind a closed door: not clear enough to let anyone grasp the words, yet conveying emotions: fear, anger, anguish… love.

Love.

The dwarf in the rags could be Sigrun's sister: the innocent, wide-set eyes looking at the two children while the tone of her voice speaks more clearly than the words obscured by time:  _it'll be alright, mommy's here._

Hesitantly, the children's anxious faces break into smiles and they run to play in the rubble, yelling with carefree, high-pitched voices, while the woman watches them intently as if to brand their images into her mind.

_Her children._

Nathaniel quickly turns away, so as not to see if the scene merely fades away, or continues unfolding to its tragic end when Kal'Hirol's defences fell.

On they go, in gloomy silence, witnessing all those lost lives and personal tragedies, not only forgotten but absolutely unknown… inconsequential in the grand scheme of thing.

_Inconsequential._

Nathaniel feels his hand tightening the grip of the hilt.

Most of the dwarves are in rags, only a few – too few – wear armour of the finest make.

 _Why were there so few warriors here? Were those commonfolk_ inconsequential _?_

Armoured or not, all of them fight and die alike, at the provisional barrier before the darkspawn break through, and the fight turns into slaughter.

Bones lie thick on the floor on both sides of the broken barrier, and crush under their feet.

Bones also lie thick around a makeshift pedestal, on which a massive stone slab is placed, slanting, half-obscured with a heap of crushed bones and armour. The surface of the slab is covered with etched runes, stretching in many columns, in the same script Nathaniel has seen all over the place.

He flinches as Oghren suddenly roars in fury and then spouts a long string of vulgarism. The Wardens glance at one another, unable to grasp what has got into him; ignoring them, the dwarf grabs Sigrun's shoulder, pointing at the slab: "See what they did? See what those soddin' bastards did?"

The Legion scout is very pale but looks at him firmly. "I wouldn't know. You don't learn to read in the streets, and the Legion doesn't waste time on the dead."

Breathing rapidly, Oghren withdraws the hand and runs it over the remnants of his burnt beard. "They…. It's written up there. When those sods learned that the darkspawn were coming and that the access route couldn't be sealed in time, they evacuated. The best from the warrior caste volunteered to stay behind and gain them some time… and only then they found out that all the dusters were left behind. Not because nobody thought them no good to take along… nobody even realized they existed. So that's why…" he makes a gesture encompassing all: the layers of bones, and the ghosts lingering around, fighting eternally a battle long lost.

No-one makes a sound.

Then, slowly, Sigrun walks over to the pedestal, looking closely at the columns of text. "That is all there is to it?" she asks tensely.

"No," Ned replies in a hushed voice, holding tight Wolf's collar. "I've seen such writings before. Tell us, Oghren, are those names?"

"They are." In contrast to his previous roar, Oghren almost whispers. "The names of every single duster who was rallied to join the fight. They were born casteless but they died _warriors_."

"But died nonetheless. Did their sacrifice at least achieve a thing?" Anders asks, the tone of fury so uncharacteristic for his usual leisured conduct.

Oghren snorts. "You bet it did. Quite a couple of Orzammar's nobles trace their line back to Kal'Hirol."

"And don't even  _know_  how come they still live."

All eyes turn to Sigrun and then quickly drop at the bitterness in her voice.

"Oh, they soddin'  _will_ ," Oghren mutters. Grabbing the edge of the slab, he yanks it from the pedestal, the veins on his forehead swelling with the effort.

"Oghren… you can't possibly carry this along now!"

The dwarf scowls at Ned over his shoulder. " _You_ tell me about carrying dead weight," he gasps.

To Nathaniel's surprise, Ned averts his eyes. Anders starts saying something but then Justice, quiet and unmoving until then, suddenly walks over to Oghren. "That is an honourable deed, and necessary. However, I must support the Commander now: we cannot carry it along before we finish our quest, the record might be broken or lost. We will retrieve it on our way back, and I will help you carry it."

His intervention virtually leaves Oghren speechless. "I – ugh – alright." With a sigh of relief, he carefully lets the stone slide back to its place.

And then he almost jumps as Sigrun, with a smooth, almost imperceptible movement, briefly pecks him on the cheek.

No-one laughs at his bafflement. For a moment, they remain standing, watching the desk with several hundred names.

_All those people who didn't matter any more than some invisible bugs under the nobles' feet._

Nathaniel is barely aware that Velanna is standing very close to him, and when her hand steals into his, he mechanically squeezes it back.

_Nobles._

_Nobility should have another meaning_ , he thinks, painfully aware that his father would probably have acted in the same way under the same circumstances.  _Never a thought of those who were no use to him… never a thought of me or Thomas or Delilah other than as of pawns to promote the name of the Howes._

_Delilah._

The thoughts of his sister never far away, he sees her before his inner eye: her hands clasped over the little life growing in her, her face joyous and serene, full of hope.

_Hope that those people here never had._

_And this is why I am a Warden: not because of a name but for Delilah and her child, for real, living people. For them, someone must plunge into this filth and corruption, to make sure that they won't be abandoned to such a tragedy ever again._

He blinks, his musing interrupted by Ned's command to move on, and startles at the realisation what he has just done. Before he has a chance to rectify somehow his mistake, the elf slides away to take her usual position at the end of their marching order.

_Oh, dammit. Later._

Nathaniel follows Ned and Sigrun, squeezing in between empty pods, fleshy and warm to the touch, and when they arrive at a cluster of occupied ones, yielding a load of Children, he fights the monstrosities with a fierceness he didn't know he possessed.

The tunnel then narrows, covered with layers of pulsing materia which completely obscures the stone. At several spots, it even raises in bulbous forms which they have to crawl over, sinking into its slimy softness. When they finally reach a wider opening, they are welcomed with deafening screeches and wildly beating tentacles, protruding unexpectedly from the materia all around a pit in the centre of the cavern.

 _No, not a cavern: still a part of the ancient dwarven structures_ , Nathaniel realizes, seeing outlines of regular shapes in the dark above their heads, and above the pit.

They retreat from the tentacles towards the walls and find remnants of a staircase leading to an upper level, towards several ramps accessing a broad platform hung on massive chains right in the middle… above the pit.

"Light, Anders!" Ned yells to make himself heard over the screeching.

A beam of white light emits from the tip of the mage's staff, settling in the form of a ball on the platform, illuminating the cracked decorations, as well as the anchoring of the chains…

…as well as the monstrous, swollen bodies, sharp-teethed openings in the grotesque faces hissing their hatred and craving.

Seeing that, Nathaniel shudders, once; then follows Ned's gesture, turning their attention to the ramp running along the perimeter of the hall, and the chains outing from massive rings set in the rock.

Oghren laughs: a deep grumbling, content sound. "Lend me a hand, skirtie," he tells Anders. "Ice and fire, fire and ice – we'll bring these down in no time. Ye others can just pick yer noses meanwhile."

They don't, of course: the remaining darkspawn of Kal'Hirol, a ridiculously small number, appear now and then to defend the broodmothers. They are cut down effortlessly to the sound of Oghren's heavy axe crushing the rings and the loose chains clanking, until the remaining chains snap under the weight and the central platform falls, crushing all that lies beneath in a short moment when screeching turns into a wail.

In the sudden silence, Ned approaches the edge of the pit. "I can still see some movement down there. A few of those lyrium arrows, Nathaniel – from a safe distance."

Waiting for the others to retreat, Nathaniel runs his hand over the elegant shaft of his grandfather's bow.  _For you, Delilah,_ he thinks, sending two blue-glowing arrows in a quick sequence into the pit, and jumps into the tunnel to take cover from the explosion.

Coughing from the stench of burnt flesh, they make their way back into the thaig, to retrieve the names of the lost, and to return into the daylight.


	31. Confessions and Lamentations

The blade swishes through the air and gets stuck with a thud and quiet thrum.

_Off the mark._

_Again._

Nathaniel mutters a curse through his teeth and gets up to retrieve his throwing knives from the lichen-covered stump. When he resumes his previous position, he takes a few breaths to concentrate and tries again.

_Screw it. Missed completely._

Abandoning the futile attempt at calming down, he gets up and begins pacing, to vent the whirling emotions and tension that have been nagging at him ever since the return from Kal'Hirol.

Once again, he wishes he had never heard about the place.

Whatever resolve kept the individual Wardens going and fighting through the hell of the infested thaig, it wore thin during the long, extremely uneventful way back which nonetheless still kept them on the edge. The weariness of mind and body after the extreme exertion affected them all, with the single exclusion of Justice, whose cold, unnatural calmness was hardly any comfort to anyone. The endless trudge through the dark corridors was straining for everyone but Velanna was the one hit worst: once the hope of finding Seranni, which kept her nearly oblivious to the dreads around her, turned out futile, all energy left her and for the bigger part of the journey, she had to be supported.

_And of course, the idiot who had to do it was me._

The choice was obvious: Ned, deep in gloomy silence, led the way, Oghren and Justice were toiling with the stone list of the casteless, and Anders as the single usable mage had to remain ready and alert… and so Sigrun took up Nathaniel's usual position in the front and he walked with Velanna, supporting her, the whole time acutely aware of the way she clang to him.

She clang to him even after they finally exited the Deep Roads into the daylight, to the base camp where the soldiers under Maverlies' command welcomed them with all the comfort a winter camp could provide: fire to warm, food and drink aplenty, even warm water to wash the gore and slime before they changed into clean clothes.

Warmed and fed and tended to, they should be resting comfortably but they aren't. Even after a long, exhausted sleep, Anders and Oghren don't indulge in their usual banter, Velanna doesn't quip in with sarcastic remarks about the horrible shems, Ned and Wolf are nowhere to be seen… the full extent of what they've been through has fully settled in only now. Sigrun seems to be the only one recuperating fast: watching everything around her with her eyes wide open ever since she left "the Stone" the first time in her life, she enthusiastically examines every single object new to her – which constitutes about nearly everything.

Finally, to escape the gloomy mood (as well as Velanna's eyes, following him almost everywhere in the camp), Nathaniel retreated into the solitude of the wood, finding a sheltered spot behind the wall of low spruces on a small glade.

The practice with throwing knives, a handy resort for a distracted mind, has turned out rather disappointing. The memories of Kal'Hirol are still pressing… and whenever he manages to keep these at bay, his thoughts inevitably end up with Velanna.

_Velanna._

Nathaniel knows all too well that he needs to talk to her soon, before they set out for the Keep again, to give her time to adjust to the situation, only he is absolutely clueless how to handle it.

_Er, Velanna, I know that I've been ogling you at every opportunity but I'm actually not interested…_

_Yeah. Except that I want to screw you, I'm totally not interested._

_So very convincing._

_And I don't really want to quell this, do I._

The only thing that hold him back is consideration for Astrid who's been playing on the fair side in this.

_Fairness for fairness. I owe her that much, even though I don't love her._

There's no escape: he has to swallow the bitter pill and finally talk to Velanna… only he is  _so_  loath to discuss this…

_Nathaniel Howe, you damned coward. What are you waiting for, something miraculously solving this for you?_

He doesn't hear her coming, only until she is very close – the elf weaves through the undergrowth as if on wings, even though she is striding, determinedly, towards him.

Forced into the confrontation, Nathaniel thinks briefly that this is probably for the best – to delve into the inevitable, head first, without much pondering.

As Velanna approaches, it strikes him once again how beautiful she is – her silken hair, freshly washed, shining around her shoulders, her cheeks rosy with cold, her delicate lips slightly open, without the usual display of stubbornness. Her strides are lithe, her hips swaying, and she stops only very close to him, looking up at him with those large, golden-green eyes…

He takes a breath to say something, or perhaps make a step back, not to be so close –  _so very close_  – but suddenly, Velanna's arms clasp around his neck and her lips, firm and demanding, seal his. The tip of her tongue lashes out, tasting him and bringing the taste of  _her_ along, her hand digging into his hair on his nape, her body pressing against him –

–  _those wonderful breasts, the rosy nipples hardened in the cold air –_

–  _so close –_

Groaning into her mouth, Nathaniel pulls her even closer, with the hands he never knew he placed on her hips. He slides under her jerkin, to the warmth of her body which arches under his touch, ever so tighter to his arousal.

A branch cracking and a huffed bark snap him out of the fervour, realizing whose presence it signifies.

Feeling him freeze, Velanna actually hisses, like a big cat whose prey has just eluded, and curiously, the sound momentarily revives the desire to tear off her clothes and have her right there, on the snow, no matter what.

The next moment, though, the elf snakes out of his arms and strides away, never looking back even as Ned, with Wolf prancing around, enters the opening.

The dog doesn't pay the vanishing elf any attention but Ned glances after Velanna and then raises his brows questioningly, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "I hope I didn't disrupt whatever the two of you were doing, even though, you know  _–_ "

" _Shut up!"_

In the shocked silence, Nathaniel can feel his heart racing while his head doesn't seem to be occupied by a single thought what to do after his outburst.

He expects a similarly violent reaction, or a cold reprimand, but to his surprise, Ned briefly lowers his head and says softly: "I'm sorry, Nathaniel. I didn't mean to offend you."

Even more frustrated, Nathaniel rakes his hands through his hair. "Oh, Maker, I…" His anger quickly evaporating, he realizes how stupid the whole situation is. "No, that's… I overreacted. I – I just don't seem to be able to get this right…"

No amusement this time, as Ned looks in the direction where Velanna disappeared. "You are… intrigued, right?"

"Not really sure how to call it," Nathaniel admits, feeling absolutely ridiculous for even voicing that. "I – I mean, she is very pretty, and brave, and sometimes she can be nice when she wants to, but other than that… I don't think I can even say that I like her, she's so weird… so unpredictable."

"She left her own people for a reason," Ned agrees. "She is a really difficult person to get along with. I don't think I've ever met someone like her… sometimes I wonder to what extent the decision to leave her clan was really her own, or if she was simply… forced out."

"Difficult doesn't even start to cover it," Nathaniel mutters darkly. "I feel like an idiot for, you know…"

"Being attracted by the challenge?"

Said like that, it doesn't sound particularly appealing but the assessment is true, at least partially. "Perhaps. Though it's just, er, physical."

"Just physical," Ned repeats, in a rather weird tone. "Even 'just physical' can easily turn into… something else. – Though I'm not really the one who should give advice on this," he says curtly, pressing his lips and looking away.

Nathaniel also averts his eyes, unsure what the sudden twist of the conversation meant.

Wolf's intervention saves them from awkward silence: pricking his ears, the dog barks sharply and starts for the opposite edge of the glade, most probably catching some scent in the wind. At Ned's whistle, he returns with a offended whine.

"No rambling around here," Ned chastises him, but the way he pats the scarred back is very different from the tone.

"You wanted to speak to me?" Nathaniel asks, trying a fresh start.

"Well, yes, though not necessarily right away, I merely chanced at you."

"Ah… now is as good a time as any," Nathaniel shrugs. "I was just trying to pass the time," he waves at the log, sporting holes from the throwing knives around the makeshift target.

Ned looks at it with a raised brow. "You seem to be awfully off the point…"

 _Tell me something I don't know myself._ "I can't focus," he admits. "This place is gnawing at me… what are we waiting for? Why don't we make back for the Keep?"

"We will, tomorrow," Ned promises. "I thought that giving us one more day to rest would be a good idea but apparently, it wasn't. I guess it's gnawing at us all…"

Wolf pokes at his hand with his nose and Ned pets him again; then, as the dog sits on his haunches, he also picks a spot to sit down tiredly. "I didn't think it would be so tough down there, either," he confesses. He looks up at Nathaniel. "I nearly got us all killed."

Nathaniel brushes off the remains of snow from the log he has occupied previously. "But it had to be done," he points out. "If we left those breeding grounds intact, we'd be in a great deal of trouble in no time at all."

Ned is watching intently a broken branch protruding from the snow. "We still are. We didn't find the Architect, nor that mysterious 'Mother', we still have no idea why darkspawn started to talk or what keeps them from receding underground…"

"That's true," Nathaniel has to admit, "but it is still well possible that after what we did here, the attacks will stop, or at least reduce in number. If they have become intelligent, to retreat would be the clever thing to do."

"To retreat where we cannot reach them, so that they could strike again when we are not ready."

"Or we at them when they don't expect us."

A shade of a brief smile. "So, you would venture underground again?"

"Hardly with pleasure," Nathaniel snorts, "but it has to be done, there is no way around it."

Finally, Ned raises his eyes to him. "That is good to know," he says softly. "You know, down there, you had me worried for some time. You seemed…" he makes an indefinite gesture with his hand.

 _Scared. Revolted._ "I know. But – I overcame it. I… I came to realize what really matters to me, and I stuck to it to get myself through."

Ned nods in understanding, and though he doesn't ask, Nathaniel offers an explanation. "I realized that being able to kill darkspawn is not enough – the important thing is why I do it, why I  _have_  to do it. Not for myself, to clean the family name or whatever, but for my sister, and for others like her, who must be protected, and not be abandoned to their fate like those poor folks down there. And to do that… I can't be repelled by filth… or fear." Feeling his throat tightening, he adds to lighten the mood: "Though, whenever I had to muck myself in some more slime, it was only the thought of a profound bath that kept me going."

Ned snickers at that, briefly, his thoughts apparently occupied by something else troubling his mind.

Feeling strangely close and distanced at the same time, Nathaniel leans forward to him. "What keeps  _you_  going? How do you manage to cope with what we were through down there?"

The silence lingers so long that he begins to worry if he hasn't crossed a line, but then Ned says very softly, not looking at him: "I… I can plunge into whatever's ahead because I know that it can't be more terrible than what has already happened to me."

_Of course. Highever._

_Whatever happens, whatever I do, it always comes back to that_ , Nathaniel thinks helplessly, staring into the ground, until Ned suddenly reaches to put a hand on his shoulder. "No, not this, Nathaniel. This is not about your father any more."

Puzzled, he looks up, and Ned smiles briefly, without the smile reaching his eyes. "You always wear the same expression when it comes to the topic," he explains. The hand on Nathaniel's shoulder gives a small press before it retracts and clasps the other in Ned's lap. "Has Oghren told you about our search in the Deep Roads, back then during the Blight?"

Not sure where this is heading, Nathaniel replies cautiously: "He did mention it a couple of times – not very consistently and not in great detail, except when he bragged about some fights."

A snort. "And undoubtedly, gossiped about me and Morrigan, right?"

" _One hell of a prickly bitch if I've ever seen one, but her tits, yeah… the Commander was so taken with those tits that he even found the time to shag her in between killing darkspawn."_  Nathaniel clears his throat. "Sort of."

"Thought so. He's worse than an old crone in this." Staring at the dimly pink horizon, Ned absent-mindedly fidgets with his fingers – or rather, as if he was fidgeting with a ring through his glove, even though Nathaniel is not aware of him wearing one. "We spent weeks underground… or rather, an eternity, as there was no way to measure the time. We followed a weak, hopeless lead, but still, we moved on and reached the place we were supposed to… the Dead Trenches."

The name sounds ominous, and Nathaniel shifts uneasily, returning in his memory to the bleak devastation of Kal'Hirol.

Ned doesn't seem to take notice. "There, after all that caution, I made a terrible mistake. We briefly joined the Legion and assisted them in a grand battle with darkspawn, in hope that we would clear the area and move on more quickly. Some of us, however, were injured, and I decided to leave them under the protection of the Legion and scout ahead with the rest: Alistair, Sten and Oghren… and Morrigan." He briefly glances at Nathaniel. "Mind you… I was only a green Warden recruit, Alistair barely more, and neither of us knew about the existence of broodmothers. … it never occurred to us to ask something like that of those who might be knowledgeable, and it probably never occurred to them that Grey Wardens might be so ignorant. And so we went, expecting that we might fall back any time if we run into trouble, and we had no idea what we would find there."

That is a part of the story Nathaniel is familiar with. "But Oghren's crazy wife trapped you in some kind of maze."

A nod. "Yes. And when we finally fought through, next to exhausted, she commanded golems against us… you've seen what they can do, so you can imagine it didn't go well. In the end, I ended up with a only few bruises and Oghren just a little worse, but Sten and Alistair were really bad off, and Morrigan… she had taken a hit in the head and couldn't be woken. I…" Lowering his eyes to his hands –  _definitely a ring there, under the glove_ – he abruptly clasps them, entwining his fingers. "There… arose an issue what to do with her. Those two couldn't be any help carrying her. I was able-bodied but my primary responsibility was with Alistair, I couldn't both support him and carry Morrigan. Oghren was no use as a support, and… he made clear that if I wanted to save my woman just after we killed his – whom we originally set out to save, you know – I was on my own, and I didn't dare to press the issue for fear he might simply abandon us there. He was in no way bound to me, Branka's death hit him hard… I didn't dare to. So, I had to carry "the dead weight", as he put it, on my own. He… " A long pause. "He only offered to slit her throat for me if I couldn't find it in me to do it myself."

Impulsively, Nathaniel also reaches to touch Ned's shoulder. "But you made it – all of you, right?"

Ned slowly nods. "We did. And I remember every single step of those corridors and stairs when I wondered whether I would have the strength to make another one. Whether I was slowing us and doomed us all. Whether Alistair would be able to walk the whole way on his own as he insisted…" He closes his eyes. "Whether I would have to…" his voice breaks. Slowly, he puts his hand over Nathaniel's. "So, that's why I'm not really afraid down there. Whatever happens, whatever we encounter, it can only kill me. It can't be worse than... that."

He lets his hand down and Nathaniel withdraws his, feeling suddenly awkward: the intimacy of the shared memory has caught him unprepared. Trying to deal with it, he asks: "But, what about resolve? How does this – this terrible experience give you resolve?"

Ned looks up at him. "It doesn't," he admits. "I think that goes simply to stubbornness… like when you said that you keep going to get your bath, I keep going to see the sun again. Just because I am ready to die there doesn't mean that I am willing, and as long as I can do a thing, I'd rather die elsewhere but there."

_Only, it's exactly what us Wardens are supposed to do, or not?_

The prospect, though still distant, sends chills down his spine, and Nathaniel shudders: the lone death in the dark and filth is not an end he would wish for himself.

Seeing his unease, Ned's lips briefly press in a firm line and hands clench. "I  _won't_ ," he says, surprisingly fiercely. "Tradition or not, I won't do that. I can go into the Deep Roads with a mere sliver of hope to ever return, but I won't go there to just die. I have done my duty and given my life to the Wardens, but my death will be  _mine_  to decide." He issues a barking laughter. "After all, what can they do to me if I don't comply?"

That leaves Nathaniel speechless. In the lingering silence, his eyes are drawn by the sight of Ned fidgeting with the ring under his glove: when he realizes what he has been doing, as well as Nathaniel's interest, he freezes for a moment. He lowers his head to look at his hand; then, with a sigh, he peels off the glove.

The ring is rather tiny, of some kind of wood: a mere trinket; yet, Nathaniel is surprised why he never noticed it before, or why Ned wears it at all.

_Unless…_

"Yes," Ned guesses his thought in one of those moments of practically reading each other's mind. "That is from Morrigan. The single thing I have left from her."

Looking at the ring, Nathaniel feels his head brimming with questions he doesn't dare to ask: whether for fear of being answered or not, he cannot tell.

Slowly, Ned covers the ring with the other hand and his lips move without a sound, forming a single word. Then, looking somewhere far off, he adds: "And it all started with me being intrigued."


	32. A Very Long Night of Nathaniel Howe

_Pinehill. Stoneford. Derhall estate._

The list goes on and on, and Nathaniel feels like howling in frustration. The days of winter travel, there and back, the mentally and physically exhausting fight in the ruins of Kal'Hirol, the horror and despair of its fall and of its current inhabitants, and all for nothing. Nothing.

_' _We didn't find the Architect, we didn't find the Mother, we didn't discover how this all started...'__

_We have achieved nothing. All that strain and struggle, for nothing._

The list of the darkspawn attacks which happened in their absence is daunting - and instead of making the darkspawn retreat, the attack on the Kal'Hirol breeding grounds as if provoked a surge in their activity.

Ned listens to the account with a stony expression but Nathaniel is sure that the Commander's thoughts only reflect his own. Yet, seeing Ned bury his face in his hands when Varel finishes the report comes as a mild shock. He exchanges an alarmed look with the seneschal over Ned's lowered head but neither of them dares to comment.

"We have achieved nothing... again." Ned's voice sounds not only muffled but dull. "We nearly got ourselves killed for no good reason, and now I have to go and face Eddelbrek and the other lords and explain why I took a fancy trip right in the middle of a growing crisis."

The silence he receives in answer provokes a dim smile as he raises his head. "What, no encouragement? Not a single piece of  _good news? Varel?"_

The seneschal clears his throat. "I believe the dinner will be served soon, my Lord."

Ned groans and rolls his eyes. "I said, 'good news'. This means only that Eddelbrek will spoil not just my mood but my dinner, as well."

The seneschal sighs pronouncedly but otherwise refrains from commenting, keeping his face controlled, as does Nathaniel. Ned glances from one to the other and slowly straightens. "We need a miracle," he states matter-of-factly. "We need something to happen soon, to solve this stalemate. Only, I have no idea how to arrange it."

Silence. There is nothing to be added to that, as long as the arling bleeds and no solution seems available.

The dinner is an awkward occasion: the extent of destruction wrought to the arling far exceeds that currently occurring in West Hills or any other part of Ferelden directly affected by the Blight, and Nathaniel can tell that the nobles from Eddelbrek's retinue do not bear the situation lightly. He is more than glad that they are seated at the places of honour at the upper table, which leaves him somewhat outside the centre of attention.

 _Thanked be the Maker for little mercies_ , he thinks sarcastically, seeing Ned deflect Lord Eddelbrek's prickly tongue for the umpteenth time.

Only, his position means that he is seated practically opposite Velanna, who has started to attend the meals recently. Nathaniel can feel her eyes on him almost constantly, with feline contentment over a prey that cannot possibly escape - a notion that should probably irritate, or at least disquiet him, but it doesn't.

 _Maker be blessed for little mercies, as Astrid has left for Amaranthine and will not be back for a couple more hours… or even on the morrow_.

The thought of the fair-haired messenger disquiets him more than Velanna's possessive advances: the profound feeling of guilt has never left him since Kal'Hirol, and her silence when he had to admit that the 'situation' still remained unresolved cut deeper than any sharp words which he had expected. She didn't even turn him a cold shoulder, but the distraught silence as she was lying in his arms afterwards spoke volumes.

Nathaniel sighs inwardly. Astrid's returns from Amaranthine used to be something he looked forward to – both due to the letters from Delilah and to the simple pleasure of Astrid smiling at him and kissing him in a way of greeting. He casts a sidelong glance at Velanna, at the delicate curve of her cheeks and finely shaped lips which he kissed, as well –

 _Idiot. Neither the time nor place to think about_ that _._

_Idiot. And coward._

With a startle, Nathaniel realizes that he has lost track of the conversation: as it seems, Ned argues with Lord Eddelbrek about the best course of action to improve the protection of the farmland.

 _We need something to happen soon,_  Nathaniel thinks helplessly,  _and_ I _need something to happen soon, as well._

Without much appetite, he toys with his portion of stew.  _Stalemate. Or rather, indecisiveness._

A sound of rushing steps and the door flings open as a guard, breathless, bursts into the room. "My Lord Commander… dire news."

A woman follows behind him, limping badly; a crude, blood-soaked bandage just above her knee, her fair hair dishevelled and clotted with dark stains, her blue eyes feverish in dark-smeared face…

Astrid.

Making two more uneasy steps, she lands on her knees. "Lord Commander…" her voice is hoarse and shaky, and she is gasping. "Darkspawn… are attacking Amaranthine…"

That brings to their feet even the last of those still remaining seated; Nathaniel, on the contrary, has to secure himself against the table, almost physically sick.

_Delilah._

_Oh, Maker, Delilah…_

"They… issued from the tunnels and sewers below the city… they are within the walls and around… darkspawn and some weird creatures, like giant bugs…" Astrid's words fall into dead silence, no-one and nothing moves.

Ned is the first to break out of the stupor; leaving his place, he bends over Astrid. "What about the City Council? Aidan? The templars? Were they able to put up any resistance?"

Astrid shakes her head feebly. "Some – some city guards were fighting in the main street just behind the gate… I couldn't go past… Sergeant Clover yelled at me to get the message to you…" Her breath hitches. "Then the darkspawn were suddenly everywhere…." Her eyes swerve over Ned's shoulder at Nathaniel. "They were all around… they clawed at me and Windy as I went…"

_No._

Nathaniel feels cold horror clutch at his heart even before she finishes, sobbing: "The big one grabbed me by the hair but I struck him down, but – b-but – his b-blood splashed all-all over me and – and it burns – it – b-burns…"

At that moment, Nathaniel is already kneeling by her, side by side with Anders. Holding Astrid tight as she throws herself in his arms, he sees the mage nod to the Commander lightly.

"Astrid. Do not be afraid. It will be alright." The soothing power of Ned's voice is so strong that her sobs somewhat subside. "Anders, take her for treatment and then inform Cera. Tell her to start with preparations immediately." Gently, he releases Astrid from Nathaniel's arms. "Go with Anders, Astrid. He will take care of you. – You stay a while, Nathaniel."

Straightening, Ned looks around, at the faces pale with shock. "These are dire news indeed but we must not despair, we must act quickly. We will not let Amaranthine fall. My Lords," he addresses Eddelbrek and his vassals, "rally your men and speed for Amaranthine." Not waiting for their response, he turns to Garavel. "Captain. Gather an attack force for saddles. Take the most seasoned men, and preferably volunteers. We leave as soon as possible. See to it that they are equipped with the best the Keep can provide."

Garavel is on his way even before he finishes the salute; as Eddelbrek is about to follow, he is stopped by Ned's gesture. "Just a moment, my Lord. The situation is grave. The force we can dispatch for Amaranthine so quickly is small, and there is no telling what we may encounter there." He takes a deep breath. "Therefore, I hereby name Nathaniel Howe my second-in-command, and the acting Warden Commander and Arl of Amaranthine in case I do not return. I will prepare the necessary documents that will confirm him as such, to be sent to the King and to Weisshaupt, so that his authority is not questioned until the First Warden confirms his naming or determines a replacement. I will have you sign these documents as witnesses before you leave, Lord Eddelbrek, and they will be given to Seneschal Varel for safekeeping."

Ignoring the stunned silence, Ned turns and addresses Nathaniel directly. "I know you will not fail me."

_Don't. Don't do this to me._

But there is nothing he can do, and so Nathaniel takes a knee again. "As you command." He has to be careful when getting up because his head is spinning and he desperately needs air, but he has to wait until Ned beckons him to follow.

"Why? Why me?" he spurts as soon as the door closes behind them and they almost run through the corridors to Ned's chambers. "Why don't you let me come with you? This is my chance to redeem my name and to save my sister!"

"Because there is no-one else who could take the role! Who should represent the Wardens if I fall? A drunk dwarf, a rotting corpse, an apostate? Do Velanna or Sigrun seem as plausible candidates?" Ned passes a hand over his face: it trembles. "You think I do not know what I'm asking of you?"

Dropping his eyes, Nathaniel shakes his head.

"I'm sorry," Ned says rather desperately, "I'm really sorry, Nathaniel, but I need you here."

"Never mind," Nathaniel overcomes the lump in his throat, "never mind, I see. Just, if you can – if there is – if –"

"I'll find Delilah if I can. I swear."

Nathaniel swallows hard. "I know you will, you needn't swear. And do come back, I do not feel like explaining time and again that you were not insane to choose me."

"I'll try to spare you the inconvenience." A faint smile, which disappears immediately. "Will you help me prepare my gear? I have some writing to do."

The following minutes pass like in a dream: he checks and prepares the battle gear, potions and flasks, while Ned is writing frantically; Eddelbrek, already armed and armoured for the journey, hurriedly signs the documents practically without reading, interrupting the task to shout some orders at his men from the window. Servants and soldiers rush in and out, taking orders, and Nathaniel does his best to keep his hands from trembling as he is helping Ned don the armour.

Then, briefly, they are alone, and he clasps the sword to Ned's side.

Ned holds his hands by the forearms before he can withdraw them. "Farewell. Take care."

"You too." He wants to say more, he does, but his throat tightens, and then Ned is gone and the riders are leaving the Keep.

The sudden silence after the bustle is confusing. Taking a few deep breaths, he tries to calm down and focus – the list of tasks to be done is quite extensive, yet when he seeks Varel, he is relieved to find out that the older man has the things already running smoothly. Even so, their discussion is a prolonged one, till it's interrupted by Cera, peeking into the room: "Ready."

The moment Nathaniel realizes what for, his stomach performs a somersault.

Varel puts a hand on his shoulder. "Go bring her, Nathaniel," he says softly. "We're practically done here."

That is easier said than done, though: Astrid is not in her room in the barracks, nor in his, nor in the infirmary, and no-one seems to have an idea where she may have gone.

Then, it finally dawns on Nathaniel.

The stable is dark and empty, and not a sound. Disappointed, he turns to leave, before he realizes that at least one horse should be present, and with his heart pounding, he makes for Windy's box.

There he finds them both: sitting on the ground by the dead horse, her hand slowly pets the fair mane. Realizing Nathaniel's presence she slowly raises her head. "He was in pain," she says quite calmly, "so I helped him the only way I could. Will you do the same for me?"

"Astrid…" Kneeling by her, he attempts to take her in his arms: she does not respond. "You don't have to die," he tries again.

"I am already as good as dead."

"No. There is another way, listen…"

"I know. Anders has told me."

Nathaniel finds the quiet resignation worse than the previous hysteria. "It's not so bad, being a Warden…"

She looks into his eyes and says nothing.

"You could still have your horses, the Commander will let you…" With growing despair, he grabs her by the shoulders and gives her a shake. "Won't you at least try? For me, if for nothing else?"

She watches him long without an answer, until she finally nods. At his urging, she gets up and follows him to meet Cera and Varel, in a secluded room. Impassively, she listens to the words of the Joining, not looking at either of them but at Nathaniel. When Varel offers her the cup, though, she hesitates, as if transfixed by its dark content. When she doesn't move, Nathaniel takes the cup from Varel and presses it into her hands. "It's nasty but it doesn't last long, and when you wake up, I will be with you," he promises softly.

She never takes her eyes from him as she drinks, and even after she gasps and the whites of her eyes turn bloodshot, he believes that everything will be alright, that a strong woman like her will master the Taint.

He holds her until she stops writhing, still unable to grasp what has transpired, until Varel gently closes her bleeding eyes and makes him release his arms. "I'll take care of her, boy. Go get some sleep, it's late."

Nathaniel does not move, a single thought resonating in his head:  _she took her death from my hands. Maker, help me, I wanted something to happen… and she took her death from my hands._

He doesn't recall how he got into his room but it is only the sight of the bed where the used to lie, and the memory of the dream of fair horses with manes flying in the wind, that undoes him to tears. He lies sleepless, staring into the dark, and when Varel wakes him, it seems that he has barely closed his eyes. Confused, he thinks for a moment that he has been through this already: a woman, her face pale with horror, her hair dishevelled, bringing dire news…

But the woman's hair is only shoulder-length, and honey, not fair, and she is unhurt: Danella the scout, her hair dishevelled by wind and trembling with exhaustion as she drove mercilessly both the horse and herself, to bring the warning in time.

An army of darkspawn is approaching the Keep.


	33. The Hour of the Wolf

The dim light in the eastern sky heralds the slowly coming winter dawn; the land is still dark, masking the darkness spreading across the land like incoming tide – the tide that will soon engulf and drown them all.

The wind, wailing on the battlement, cuts to the bone.

Straining his eyes, burning from the lack of sleep, Nathaniel tries to discern the first figures moving towards the Keep. He wishes for the light to come, though it can bring no hope along, and he knows all too well that it may well be the last dawn that he will ever see.

To his surprise, while acutely aware of the cold, he feels no fear, as if the lack of hope burnt any other feeling that he might still retain.

There is no hope, and nothing to be done.

Making use of the time bought by Danella's warning, Nathaniel has prepared the Keep's defences and manned its walls best he could, using every single able-bodied man from the castle estates while their families withdrew into its dubious safety. He sent out the word about the attack, as well – to Eddelbrek, and Ned, even to Denerim – but with the crisis at Amaranthine tying their forces, no reinforcements can be expected any time soon. Even with the men that Ned took with him, the Keep would have been undermanned; as it is now, Nathaniel cannot even hope to hold the outer walls. Abandoning the walls, repaired and heightened with such effort, is a bitter pill, but walls cannot hold out on their own without the men to defend them. The plan is to deal maximum damage to the darkspawn and then retreat to the second line of defence around the main courtyard and hold out there as long as they can. The last line then would be the Keep itself and the access to the vaults, sheltering the young and the old and those too frail to be of any use.

He doesn't turn or move, hearing footsteps, until Varel leans against the battlement next to him. They exchange glances; no words are needed. The seneschal has donned his armour; despite his age, he moves in it with the ease of a long-time warrior. Below them, the thin lines of defenders stand on the outer walls, illuminated in regular intervals by burning iron casks heating oil and water in large cauldrons. The ballistae are manned; what little archers remained to Nathaniel's disposal are stationed on the towers and platforms under Maverlies' command. The best of them received what remained of Dworkin and Cera's special produce arrows – against the numbers they are facing, an insubstantial few.

Yet other explosives of the crazy dwarf's experimental workshop await to wreak havoc when the darkspawn amass below the walls; once the fighting spills over the walls and into the courtyards, the explosions would be too dangerous to the defenders themselves.

Once the darkspawn break in, it will be a man-to-man fight for which the Keep's armory yielded its best – every single runed sword, every piece of dragonbone left there after Ned's departure – and yet even that will not be enough.

The skill and the will, the equipment and spells, cannot replace numbers.

"'Told you that you should have stayed in the Marches," Varel remarks. "This place is about to get bad for your health soon enough."

"I don't think I'll have the time to develop some plague," Nathaniel retorts.  _Besides, I'm already carrying one in my veins._

Briefly, he thinks of Astrid whose body now rests in the serene peace of the Chantry: they will join soon again. His mind strays to Delilah, as well, the darling little sister, lost and found again, who may still live and pass on the blood of the Howes, and to Ned, fighting a desperate fight, not knowing that what he has striven to build will vanish shortly.

 _Shortly, but not without a fight,_ Nathaniel thinks.  _I, Nathaniel Howe, will not let you down. I'll do my duty best I can._

He turns to Varel. "Time we took our places." At the gate, the fight will be the worst: he placed there the best men, along with Oghren and Sigrun – the only Wardens left at his disposal, as the dwarves could never hope to keep up with Ned's riders.  _"Oh, never mind, I'm dead anyway,"_  the former scout of the Legion remarked merrily when she learned about their prospects; Oghren's only reaction was a swig from his inseparable bottle which he generously offered to the others. The bottle passed from hand to hand in grave silence, till the only remaining of Cera's apprentices, a healer looking barely past fifteen, coughed on the strong ale.

" _We'll get stuck in the darkspawn's throat like that, as well,"_  Nathaniel said then,  _"we will make them remember the Keep with fear."_

_Time to stay true to the words._

Routinely, he checks the positions of his blades and takes the great Howe bow which he has put on the battlement but then Varel stops him, touching his shoulder. "It is an honour to fight along with you, Nathaniel Howe."

"Likewise," he replies, slightly bowing to repay the seneschal's courtesy.

The older man then produces a wolfish grin, apparently to crack another witty line, but then he frowns and looks beyond Nathaniel: "What's that?"

A tiny sparkle of light: several of them, in fact, approaching fast:  _riders_. The sound of the warhorn sounding the familiar signal catches them already on the stairs as they both rush to the battlement of the main gate.

They are not the only ones rushing: the darkspawn also speed up, to prevent the reinforcements to reach the Keep: Nathaniel can already feel the Taint surging and in the first echo of light, he can see the darkness swarming with shapes pressing on.

The riders make it, though: on foaming horses, they reach the gate, the griffon armour in the front.

Nathaniel cannot speak, his heart throbbing in his throat, and so it is Varel who take over the initiative: "Lord Commander… this is entirely unexpected, though I cannot say unwelcome. But what happened? How did you learn in time? And what about Amaranthine? Did she fall before you arrived? What about the darkspawn there, are they marching at the Keep, as well?"

Garavel is already ordering the men to take posts on the battlement; they move in grim silence. Ned glances there briefly and then turns to Varel, his eyes passing Nathaniel with only the slightest faltering. "I learned," he says: a tense, harsh tone that makes Nathaniel's heart stop for a while, "I learned and had to deal with the darkspawn there quickly to get back in time."

Varel knits his brows, and Ned's eyes swerve to Nathaniel again, an emotion fleeting across his face but not making it into the voice: "Now we have to deal with those here to make it worth a city burnt to the ground."

_Burnt?_

Nathaniel cannot breathe, cannot speak, and Ned still won't look at him.

_Burnt?!_

He moves, and the movement catches Ned's eye: something wild, and dark, is in those eyes, and then the moment is gone with the alert sounded on the battlement, and Ned springs to the stairs, Varel behind him.

Another familiar figure passes, and Nathaniel's hand catches his sleeve. In that bleak pre-dawn light, Anders' eyes seem also dark, with a look he hasn't seen before.

"What happened?" the voice is rasp, not like Nathaniel's own. "What –"

_What is with my sister? Maker help me, what is with Delilah?_

The mage yanks his arm free and his eyes also swerve, and Nathaniel feels the urge to grab him and shake the life out of him. "Anders –" he says instead and his voice breaks.

The mage casts a quick look at the battlement, at Ned giving out orders, and rakes both his hands through his hair. "I'm sorry, Nathaniel… the city was overrun, and those beasts brought with them some new form of the taint, they spread the Blight disease around much faster than normally… when we arrived, Aidan and what remained of his men and some Templars were trying to keep both the darkspawn and the afflicted within the city walls. Then…" he rakes his hands through his hair again. "A messenger from the Architect arrived, claiming that this is all that Mother's doing and that the attack on Amaranthine was just a trap and that another army is marching to assault the Keep. Garavel then suggested burning the city…"

His words blend in nonsensical droning, drowning in the blood throbbing in Nathaniel's ears.

_Burnt. Afflicted. Tainted. Burnt._

"Anders! Get over here!"

The sharp order pierces through the haze of Nathaniel's disorganized thoughts and he looks up at the battlement, at Ned's dark outline against the sky.  _But you said,_ he thinks helplessly,  _you swore…_

"I'm sorry," Anders mutters, and rushes past him up the staircase, a corona of energy enveloping his staff even before he reaches the battlement, while Nathaniel just stands there, lost, without a single thought in his head. He is woken from the stupor only when someone slaps his flank:

"Here we go, blighter. Time to kill ourselves some 'spawn."

 _Time to kill. Good._  Following Oghren on the battlement, he prepares his bow.  _Kill. Kill them all._

The great bow of Padraig Howe starts singing its song.

Later on, Nathaniel remember only little of that all: the strain of his right arm, pulling the bow, the string twanging against his left bracer, again and again, amid the heavy whooshing of the trebuchets pouring their fiery loads at the darkspawn; the blue-white flashes of Dworkin's explosives, the fire and lightning conjured by the mages. Somewhere to his right, a clear elven voice yells incantation; below him, darkspawn's guttural sounds turn into screeches in a pour of heated oil. At spots, the whirls of fire and magic resonate from the darkspawn hordes, and in the flashes of light Nathaniel can clearly see the emissaries; he can also distinguish some of the darkspawn moving with purpose, driving and commanding others.

At those, he tries to aim his arrows, sending each with a prayer of vengeance, willing them dead, dead, dead.

Some time in between, the day dawns, allowing him to aim with greater precision, and then, his quiver is empty. The battlement under his feet resonates with dull thuds: the darkspawn, unskilled in sieging techniques, have failed to climb the walls time and again, and so their main force now concentrates on the gate. Despite the joined effort of archers and mages, ogres wearing protective plating have reached the gate: a breach is only a matter of a brief time.

As if in response to his thoughts, a warhorn is blown:  _retreat_.

Not a moment too soon: the defenders haven't even reached the inner fortifications when the gate crashes open, its splinters flying wide. The first ogre to come through falls to the ground almost immediately but behind it, an unstoppable wave of attackers pours in: hurlocks and genlocks, and Children, borne on tall legs, their mandibles under the parodies of faces twitching and sputtering green slime.

A small force of fighters, positioned behind the gate, is the only thing that stands between the horrors and the retreating men: Oghren and Justice at the peak, and the man in the griffon armour, the dark blade of his new sword glistening with fiery runes which Wade wrought into it.

Reaching the inner gate, Nathaniel grabs a full quiver from a supplier's hand and under Garavel's command, takes the position with the other archers to cover the retreat of the rearguard. The fight is violent: the man – the  _Commander_  – is fighting with the fervour of one not caring whether he lives or dies, focusing only on bringing down as many enemies as possible: the intent that Nathaniel shares himself.

Shouted warnings from the walls behind them alert to a new danger: unopposed, the darkspawn are now pouring over the battlement at several spots, threatening to overwhelm the rearguard.

To the left and right of the defenders, fire pours as if from nowhere: the magic attack brings the darkspawn to a falter while the remains of the defenders have withdrawn, the rearguard following step by step, forming a shield wall.

With his face contorted in hatred, Nathaniel sends an arrow after another into the thickest of the darkspawn as fast as he can: he cannot possibly miss.

Then, just as Garavel sends a group of men into counterattack to relieve the pressure on the Commander's group, already within the reach of the gate, another ogre appears. Brutally stomping on the darkspawn which are not quick enough to evade, it makes its way towards the rearguard, the arrows and missiles bouncing off the heavy plates covering its head and chest.

With a deafening roar, it charges, ignoring the flashes of electricity dancing along its body.

The defence line breaks: the men are being tossed aside like dolls. The organized retreat suddenly becomes chaos as the darkspawn immediately move into the broken lines. To make the matters worse, the beast is not dead yet – temporarily staggering, it straightens and roars again, looking around for victims, and finding one right ahead, pressed by several hurlocks and Children so hard that he cannot possibly turn in time –

_Ned._

Nathaniel may have shouted the name along with others; his arrow buried deep in the beast's throat, in between the armour plates, but that is still not enough. The men around are fighting for their own lives: no help from there. A few others charge to get closer but those cannot make it in time, either.

Yet, someone is still close enough to act.

The beast howls, its crushing fists deterred, and heavily slumps to a knee as a blade cuts through its tendons, but immediately waves the armoured fist in another arc. It connects with the breastplate, tossing the man aside in a crumpled heap, and Nathaniel feels yet another pang of despair piercing him through:  _Varel!_

A roar from multiple throats follows as the charging men swarm on the ogre. A blade is thrust into its open maw and the man barely stops to release it before unleashing his wrath on the darkspawn around.

Under the fierceness of the attack, the darkspawn falter again and the defenders finally reach the inner gate, the Commander and the man who slew the ogre as the last, and only then does Nathaniel recognize Alec, the former shepherd, sentenced for stealing the royal grain.

One man who has nothing to lose, and the other fighting for everything: Alec's wife is tending to the wounded in the main hall, his little children are hiding with the others in the vaults.

_For them. For them the fight must be fought, and lives not thrown away without purpose._

With that thought, Nathaniel's mind finally clears. Briefly following Varel's bloodied face as he is being carried away to the healers, his hands are steady and calm on his bow again. He does not keep count of the emptied quivers or of the men falling: there is a duty to do. When the inner gate is broken through, as well, he casts aside the bow and joins in the fray in the courtyard where men form the last defence line, with the main building of the Keep behind their backs.

Some time in the fight, Nathaniel finds himself fighting alongside Ned and Oghren; at another, Sigrun covers his back while Justice clears the area around with mighty swings of his broadswoard, indefatigable as the death itself, against the tapestry of burning fires illuminating the darkness.

Slowly, step by step, they are being pushed back, to charge and regain ground again, in the endless rhythm of tide, though worn down more and more.

And then, just as Nathaniel feels that every strike of his blade may be the last that he will be deliver to bear, the onslaught stops. When pushed back, the darkspawn do not press ahead but keep retreating, faster and faster, until the retreat turns into flight.

Nathaniel makes a few staggering steps ahead and then stops, his exhausted brain taking long to realize what has just happened:  _we… won?_

Under Garavel's orders, men hastily barricade the broken gate, unsure if the break in fighting is temporary or not. The courtyard is strewn with bodies, darkspawn and defenders like, but darkspawn prevail, in ugly, taint-leaking heaps.

As if drawn by the lights in the windows of the great hall, Nathaniel slowly drags on the weary legs there, only now becoming aware of the wounds he has sustained. With numb hands, he gropes for the emergency potion but the pouch is empty: he must have imbibed it without even realizing.

The hall is in hustle as more and more injured are being brought in; it takes him a while to find what he is looking for.

Lying on a pallet, Varel's face is ashen, his breath laborious but his eyes open; kneeling by him, Ned is covered in dark blood from head to toe.

The dying man cannot speak; he only moves his hand in effort, and Ned grasps it with both his. "Don't die, Varel," he says hoarsely. "You took an arrow for me, you can cope with this, as well. Don't…"

The seneschal smiles at him, blood trickling from his mouth, and then his eyes wander over Ned's shoulder, to Nathaniel, before they lose focus and he exhales with a last rasping breath.

As if only now aware of his presence, Ned half-turns, his face frozen in an expression of pain, and anger.

For a moment, their eyes lock, and then it all suddenly becomes much to bear. Turning on his heel, Nathaniel brusquely strides away, to a free spot at the opposite side of the hall, where he simply slides down along the wall and falls into an exhausted sleep almost before he touches the floor.


	34. And Rocki Cried Our, 'No Hiding Place'

The smoke is ever-present, its stench permeating every breath, the bitter taste of burnt lingering on his tongue.

Nathaniel can barely remember the time when it may have been different. The bodies to be burnt, of the defenders and attackers alike, the extensive areas of the Keep to be cleansed of the tainted gore with fire – as if the whole world was to burn and choke on the smoke of its doom.

He feels as if choking on ashes even as he is saying: " _You cannot deny me this time!"_

 _Not me, not this time, and not_ you.

He is in defiance, of course, and dereliction of duty: his naming as the Second of the Grey still holds. Yet, he is stubbornly looking into the eyes of Ned Cousland,  _daring_  him to try and reject while Delilah's burning image is still hovering between them, with the faceless child in her arms.

Cousland's eyes are dark and red-rimmed, set in the deep shadows, and reflect nothing of what Nathaniel wanted to see in them, now or previously.

With his nerves on the edge, Nathaniel awaits the reply, ready to burst into threats and curses, dead set on leaving for good – the Keep, the land, even the Wardens – if his demand is not granted. For the two days since the darkspawn attack, he was numbing himself to feelings, working himself to exhaustion on cleaning the Keep. The moment he learned of the punitive expedition into the Feravel plains, though, all the suppressed pain and grief immediately flared into a single overwhelming urge:  _I won't be hindered this time_.

A part of him is even looking forward to the inevitable confrontation, whatever its outcome… but Cousland only watches him with the eyes of a stranger in a taut face, and denies him the satisfaction. "Very well, then. You may go," he replies in a flat tone, returning to the parchment he was studying previously even before he finishes the sentence.

Nathaniel closes the door forcefully calmly.

The bitterness never leaves him as he packs his gear, and exacerbates when the party gathers to depart and he realizes that the contingent of soldiers accompanying them consists of a higher number than usually, and that most of these men will descend into the tainted depths along with the Wardens, regardless of the risk. Kenneth is leading them, as before, but practically none of the previous escort are there, and some faces are entirely unfamiliar: the toll on the defenders apparently required reinforcements.

The fact that three of the soldiers also bear the Warden badges sinks in with a revolting feeling, as he remembers Astrid's vain struggle, and the burning of the tainted drink in his own mouth. Nathaniel knows only one of the three: Kiefer, a grizzled veteran from the Keep; the other two must have come with Eddelbrek or with the Denerim contingent which made it to the Keep under the royal standard.

The feel of the taint is still weak and fresh in those three.

Nathaniel doesn't prod what it was that compelled them to take in the taint, whether an order, a death wish or utter foolery; in the long run, it is a single person's decision that matters.

 _You never waste your time, do you?_ he thinks bitterly, his eyes pricking into Cousland's back – judging by a small gesture before he masters himself, he is well aware of the glare but never turns round to face Nathaniel.

If he did, Nathaniel is unsure what he might have said; would he have asked,  _'the three out of how many?'_  He doesn't really know; doesn't know if he  _wants_  to know.

They set out into a drizzle of the winter slowly loosening its hold, into a mocking promise of spring. In the wet and cold, the journey is even more miserable than in the winter chill.

Unlike the previous expeditions, when the evenings by the fire were an occasion for storytelling and banter, the camp now drowns in tense silence. Too many strangers, too many dark thoughts... even Oghren's crude humour would have seemed preferable but the dwarf's crushed ribs wouldn't heal in time to make him a valid contribution in a fight. Anders, instead of his usual "bigger-than-the-world" antics spends every free moment preparing potions; Justice looms on the watch at the edge of the camp; Sigrun occupies herself by studying and disassembling the weirdest set of objects that she has taken along; the new Wardens stick together; Ned…  _Cousland_ …

He never comes to sit by the fire; he only watches, from some place in the shadows, with Wolf by his side, dark eyes unfathomable, and never says a word, except issuing orders.

Nathaniel is fine with that, or so he keeps telling himself. What would he say, after all – what  _could_  even be said? The city of Amaranthine burnt to the ground, the pitiful few who might have survived both the darkspawn and the fire haunting Nathaniel's dreams together with all those who didn't, and the memory of Delilah, her gentle smile radiating joy –

_Damn you, Cousland. Damn you. Damn you._

Each and every time their eyes meet, both abruptly break the contact.

On occasions, Nathaniel has an acute feeling that a single word might break through that silence; on others, breaking through a wall of stone would seem more plausible, and desirable.

On occasions, he has to repel the nagging thought what  _he_  would have done… whether the chance to destroy the whole darkspawn horde contained within the city walls would be enough of an advantage to justify the sacrifice.

One way or the other, Nathaniel has no words to find that he might say, even despite the uneasy realization that perhaps now might be the only chance.

Their company now entails more than two dozen – two dozen to enter a darkspawn lair and eradicate the source of the darkspawn incursion, and destroy the mysterious Mother who reportedly sent her hordes against both Amaranthine and the Keep.

The source of the report makes Nathaniel uneasy.

_The Architect sent a messenger._

_The Architect._

Despite the warning that did turn out in the Wardens' best interest, the memory of their capture in the silverite mine is still a source of nauseating anxiety for Nathaniel: the laboratory, the disposed bones, Keenan's crushed legs… and the tainted elf, watching her sister to fight for her very life without as much as a flinch.

_What game is the bastard playing?_

_And, what means does he possess and is willing to employ? To what end?_

The implications of the Architect's apparent ability to control the taint are sickening, and Nathaniel uneasily recalls what Anders mentioned about the unusually quickly spreading affliction in Amaranthine.

_Is the Architect duplicitous, or does the Mother possess the same ability? And how does the Warden blood fit into this all? What experiments was he running there... on us?_

The thought that even if they manage to deal with the Mother, whatever she might be, they will have to find a way to deal with the Architect, as well, fills him with uncertainty: intuitively, he has the feeling that the Architect is probably more dangerous of the two… more sinister.

His head brimming with gloomy thoughts about Cousland and the Architect, Nathaniel is thankful for any distraction – or so he thinks, until the main one presents itself in the form of Velanna.

_Ah, Velanna._

In the aftermath of the attack, Nathaniel never found himself thinking about her; her constant presence now, the way she moves, the sound of her voice, are unavoidable. However, the distraction she provides is double-edged, because of the topic she persistently pursues.

He has noticed this before: each and every time they set out against darkspawn, Velanna as if lights up in hope to find Seranni. Unable to contain her emotions, she invariably picks Nathaniel to be the one who she wants to confide to.

He cannot really blame her: it was him, after all, who set this course, back then as they returned to the Wending Wood for the silverite ore, when he was trying to get to know the elf and Delilah was a plausible excuse for neutral conversation.

Back then, he enjoyed the talk.

Now, though, Velanna seems oblivious that every mention only twists the blade in the wound, and Nathaniel doesn't have it in him to make her realize that what they  _now_  have in common is a sister  _lost._

And so he watches Velanna's soft hair, flying with every animated nod of her head, the naïve hope in her eyes, and feels that some of the pain welling in his chest is reserved there for her, as well, when that hope finally crashes.

Deeply convinced that Seranni is long dead, her appearance leaves him dumbstruck.

Following the clearly visible darkspawn trail into the wilderness of the Feravel Plains, they descend into the ruins of some mysterious underground structure – surprisingly, not dwarven, the runes and remains of ornaments all but scream 'Tevinter', and Nathaniel briefly wonders what its original purpose might have been – and do not encounter any opposition until, behind a turn, they run into the last person possible:  _Seranni_.

The elf's face is the same grotesque mixture of the previous beauty and the corruption as before; yet, seeing her, Velanna squeals in joy and, before anyone can act, rushes to embrace her sister lost and found.

Nathaniel hears a sharp intake of breath, and another hiss, of a blade leaving its sheath, but other than that, Cousland doesn't move, intent on the two elves with predatory focus.

No-one moves, not even Seranni, and only as Velanna realizes that her embrace will not be reciprocated, she takes a step back. "Seranni! What has he done to you?" she wails softly.

Her sister's paled eyes turn to her. "He's done nothing," she answers with the voice still preserving its lilt, "he hasn't harmed me. The Architect is kind and wishes harm to no-one."

To Nathaniel's left, Anders snorts and holds his staff tighter but the elf ignores him. "I am here of my choice, sister. This is far greater than you or me, the darkspawn need our _help_. They are like children, ignorant of what is right or wrong, and they need our guidance."

_Mad. The woman is mad._

Whatever it is that has kept Seranni's body from further descent into a mindless ghoul during all those months, it apparently ensnared her mind even deeper in her delusion. When she speaks about convincing the darkspawn to overcome their bestial nature, Nathaniel shudders at the excitement pouring from her every word.

To his right, disapproval emanates from Justice in palpable waves, and the suite of soldiers regard both elves with equal animosity, yet the Commander's voice is devoid of resentment as he engages in the conversation: "Then perhaps, if the Architect is as benevolent as you claim, we should speak with him directly."

Seranni's face beams under the dark blotches, and Velanna practically hangs onto her lips as she says: "That is indeed what he has asked me to do – to bring you to him, so that you could understand. You will see as I have, he will explain everything!"

"Yes, yes, we will all speak to him!" Velanna nods excitedly, smiling back at the grimace of those purple-black lips.

"We will," Ned Cousland softly echoes, and with a single glance subdues any opposition among his followers before it can even be voiced.

His eyes are dark and deadly like the dragonbone blade in his hand, as he follows Seranni and Velanna further into the maze of the ruins.


	35. The Face of the Enemy

The voice is dry like old leaves, yet running smoothly, despite its unnatural intonation, its tone gentle, evoking sadness behind its logical reasoning… and concealing deep currents of a fervent  _urge_ underneath: "For this, I  _need_  the Grey Warden blood."

The voice sends chills down Nathaniel's spine while appealing to something deep within.

Deep within, Nathaniel also feels a tinge of horror stirring while he finds himself nodding to the Architect's words.

_The world without Blights. The darkspawn safe from the lure of the Old Gods, living as free sentient beings, pursuing their own goals within the vast reaches deep under the surface of Thedas._

_A little Warden blood, to sever the tie to the Old Gods, doesn't seem like a high price to pay for this._

The taint in his veins flows faster, tickling in response to the building excitement.

_Yes. Yes, he has a point._

"Yes… yes!" Velanna mutters to herself, her eyes never leaving Seranni's face, as if oblivious to its horrible transformation. " _That'_ s what you saw… you're right, you're both right!"

"This is  _wrong_." Justice's voice resonates with otherworldly tones, creating dissonance with the voice of the Architect. He moves a few steps, closer to Ned who stands, moveless. " _Wrong_."

The interruption washes over Nathaniel with a sudden chill of morning air. The group of soldiers, huddled behind the Wardens, murmurs with unease, glaring at the tall darkspawn with fear and hatred.

More than a few of them divide the glares between the Architect and both elves, their hands on the hilts, apparently thinking in terms of betrayal and madness.

Stricken with doubts, Nathaniel looks intensely at the Architect's face, half-hidden behind some metallic construction of unknown purpose, grown into the flesh. What can be seen of it looks nothing like the common darkspawn, the features are much less deformed... almost normal. The eyes behind the metal plates are harbouring their secrets; the lips tighten in an anticipation of… what?

' _It was not as he said,'_ a tiny, unperturbed voice whispers somewhere at the edge of his consciousness,  _'it doesn't make sense. Also, what he did to Seranni...'_

_What is this all about? Why did he lure us here, to ensnare us with his falsities?_

But the suspicion is immediately subdued as the Architect speaks again, and the taint in Nathaniel's veins revels. "I have explained you, Commander, how the unfortunate misunderstanding at the Keep originated… I underestimated the violence hidden in my disciple, and the Wardens brought to me for my experiments were dead already, letting their blood brought no harm to anyone."

 _Not exactly what happened_ , Nathaniel thinks again, yet remaining strangely calm, as if watching from the outside.

"I regret having restrained you, Commander… but that was done only for your protection. I never meant any harm to anyone…"

_The mindless ghouls, wearing our gear… the tainted dragons, swooping from above…_

… _seem rather irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. Darkspawn or not, he speaks reasonably._

"The Mother, she is different. Violent. She didn't take well being separated from the song of the Old Gods… There is no hope for her, and it is her whom you must destroy, and I am offering you my help in doing so."

The tickling of the taint surges as well as Nathaniel's excitement, as the Architect's intonation peaks, revealing a sense of urgency as he asks: "So, what shall it be, Commander? Shall we join our forces for a common goal?"

In response, Ned Cousland slightly shifts while no-one else moves but his face reveals nothing; the same as ever since Seranni brought them to meet the Architect. The dwarf ghoul – presumably a former Grey Warden – who is standing a few steps behind the Architect and hasn't said a word the whole time, also slightly shifts, but seeing his blade still leisurely tipped down, she only adjusts her grip on her axe.

"It sounds reasonable," Cousland states, calmly and softly. "Very logical…"

In response, several gasps sound, some breaths of relief, Velanna beams another smile at Seranni, and the Architect's features undergo an almost ungraspable change of anticipation –

"… except one thing," Cousland continues, and then, suddenly, moves lightning-fast: "Keenan  _lived_ , you liar!"

For the shortest instant, the world stands still, with the Architect staring at the black blade, buried in his belly almost to the hilt. Then, a surge of energy ensues: Ned is tossed backwards in a flash of red light, and fire starts pouring down. Desperately ducking from the flames, Nathaniel finally realizes the presence of the taint, all around.

 _Maker help us… it_ was _a trap, after all._

The air rapidly becomes hot, the heat scorches the skin. With nowhere to escape, Nathaniel shields his face from the flames.  _Between the fire and the darkspawn…_

Briefly, he wonders if this is what Delilah's final moments were like… if this is a retribution for Amaranthine.

A clunk in his ears, and he lowers his arm in time to see a cloud of white light spreading through the ancient vault, cleansing it of the magical fire. In its centre, Ned Cousland, risen on his knees, his arms spread, the blue glowing drops still tainting his lips.

The next moment, the darkspawn charge, pouring into the vault from every passage, and the Wardens' group barely have the time to position themselves in a defensive formation. The fight that ensues is vicious but short: the anger at the Architect's deceit bolsters the men's arms and the runed blades glow with fierce blue as they cut into the tainted flesh. The onslaught stops, and breaks: the mass of attackers splits into groups, then individuals, then the last one falls to the ground and the vault is quiet but for the panting and someone's soft moans.

The feels of the Taint is gone, except that present in the Wardens' veins _. No more darkspawn… near_.

Yet, the fight and the fire have taken a terrible toll: no less than five bodies lie among the dead darkspawn, some scorched, some hacked. Glancing over the men's faces, Nathaniel tries to ascertain which ones are missing - and seeing Velanna frantically looking over the dead bodies, he realizes which person is missing for sure: Seranni.

What follows remains etched in his memory for a long time.

A clank, as Ned Cousland tosses away the crude darkspawn blade that he was using, and slightly uncertainly walks over to the Architect's corpse to reclaim his blade, still protruding from the darkspawn's stomach. Barely does he straighten, though, when he finds himself under attack again: Velanna charges at him, blindly beating against his armour with her bare hands: "You… you... what have you done? You've killed him, and Seranni –"

Nathaniel is too slow to react, and freezes in midstep as Velanna, backslapped with a gloved hand, is knocked to the ground. Her eyes wide in shock, she only whimpers, once, as Cousland grabs her by the jaw, half-lifting her, and grits through his teeth into her face: "Your sister is as good as dead, and so are you, if you ever place yourself in my way again!" As Cousland releases his grip, she falls to the ground, limp, and only then starts sobbing.

Cousland walks away without as much as a glance at her, and the soldiers follow: the elf never made any friends among them. Anders does hesitate for a moment but then falls behind Justice and Sigrun... behind the  _Commander_.

Nathaniel has to will his hand to release the grip on the hilt.

Except the still sobbing elf, he is soon alone among the dead.

_Damn._

"Velanna." Kneeling by her, he takes her by the shoulders. "Velanna, we cannot stay here... we must stick together, for the good or the bad, there is no other way..."

She raises to him her tear-streaked face, bleeding from the cut lip and already swelling. "Nathaniel... she's gone... Seranni's gone..."

"She will be safe," he says as gently as he can. "The darkspawn won't harm her, and if she stays hidden, she has nothing to fear. Now, come, Velanna. We can't stay here. We have to go."

As he helps her to get up, the elf holds tight onto him. "Why... why did he do it? We could have made an agreement, I could have been with my sister..."

"Velanna..." the words taste like ash but his mind now works clearly. "The Architect was lying. And he let Seranni contract the Taint even though he possessed the means to protect her. He didn't mean well to us."

Velanna lookes over her shoulder at the mysterious darkspawn, and her features suddenly contort in a flash of anger and despair. Then she looks in the direction of the quickly vanishing blue lights of the Warden party and lets go of Nathaniel. "We must go," she says flatly. "There are darkspawn to kill."

She doesn't look back but once, and then, her bruised hand finds Nathaniel's.

The darkspawn to kill are many and fierce. The soldiers die under the blades and claws, and an encounter with an ogre in plate mail costs them Rollan, the new Warden from Denerim, and Sergeant Kenneth, who falls from the narrow bridge into the chasm below. Further on, a wave of the monstrous Children overpowers Sigrun, and Velanna's freezing spell comes a moment too late: when they recover the former Legion scout from under the shattered corpses, her innocent blue eyes stare empty into the darkness, and Wolf softly whines, nudging her with his nose in vain.

She is left behind, like everyone else, the underground itself being her only tomb.

When they finally enter the large cavern, their company has shrunk into a dozen people, none of them uninjured.

Nathaniel never thought they would make it that far.

Seeing the countless heaps and clusters of the fleshy pods, each emanating strongly the taint, he knows that this is as far as they will ever go, and that there will be no going back.

Once again, Velanna's hand finds his as they slowly make their way between the pods to the huge, tentacled mass at the farthest end:  _the Mother_.

Of all the darkspawn Nathaniel has seen, she is the worst.

Unlike the broodmothers of Kal'Hirol, the Mother used to be  _human_. The slender upper torso, ridiculously tiny against the monstrous belly sporting bug-like claws, the face still retaining the original features, the large eyes, burning red with madness...

Even now, Nathaniel can still tell that she used to be beautiful.

Whatever and whoever she used to be, death is the only relief they can offer her - death is the only thing that she can give in return. Mad and deformed as she is, she is still unwilling to give up her existence, and her Children rally to her defence.

"Defend the mages!" Cousland yells: without the support of magic, they do not stand a chance against the numbers, and even that may not suffice. Every single acid flask, every lyrium explosive that they took from the Keep's depleted reserves now becomes utilised, to postpone the inevitable. Blade against claw: that is what it will come down to in the end.

Velanna is the first to collapse, long after they run out of acid and bombs. Her legs give way; she casts one more spell while on her knees, her nose running blood, before she faints. With the support of magic reduced to a half, the darkspawn onslaught intensifies.

Yet, despite the expectations, there comes a moment when no more darkspawn appear, and Nathaniel finds himself still standing over Velanna, with Justice to his left, Kiefer of the Keep to his right, and Cousland and the last remaining soldier behind his back. Anders, conscious but utterly exhausted, is crouching among them, unable to rise but his hand still gripping the staff.

Nathaniel himself is at the point of breaking down: his leather armour is in tatters, his body bloodied from clawmarks all over. His left arm dangles uselessly by his side, his short blade lost somewhere among the darkspawn carcasses. He meets the eyes of Kiefer, also barely standing, even more ghastly pale in the blue light of the crystal lamps than normally, from blood loss and exhaustion.

Then, they all turn towards the Mother, who, still unharmed, is half-laughing, half-sobbing, while her tentacles are wildly beating, protruding randomly from the fleshy moulds covering the stone all around her.

"What now?" gasps the soldier.

 _Gareth_ , Nathaniel realizes, and remembers, with sudden clarity, the journey to the Wending Wood in the bright autumn weather.

 _We have come a full circle_.  _The Mother is the Architect's doing;_  w _hat started there we end here now._

Instead of an answer, the Commander bends to Anders; when the mage does not respond to the touch, he unscrupulously turns him over to access his healing potion reserve. Finding the last three, he distributes them to Kiefer, Gareth and Nathaniel. "We finish what we have come for," he states.

Covered in slime and gore as well as his own blood from head to toe, he barely looks human; as an aftereffect of the lyrium which he imbibed to counter the Architect's spell with his Templar talent, his eyes glow a faint blue as they glance over Nathaniel. "Got any arrows left?"

Nathaniel barely shakes his head: with his mangled arm, he wouldn't be able to draw the bow, anyway.

Adjusting his shield, the Commander quickly scans the Mother's surroundings. "Distract her," he orders, slowly starting towards her.

_Distract her._

Easier said than done: the tentacles seem to be everywhere, and evading them would be difficult even for one uninjured and rested. Nathaniel avoids a blow that would have crushed his head into a pulp but another hits him across the back, sending him flying just against the enormous belly. He delves face-first into the sickeningly slick surface and helplessly slides down, winded, while a claw digs into his shoulder. Struggling for breath, he weakly thrusts his blade into the soft mass; it shakes wildly and stinking liquid splashes his arm. With a gasp, he lies on the hilt to drive it deeper.

The screech that follows is ear-piercing, and Nathaniel screams, as well, as the claw tearing at his shoulder clutches him with a death grip. He musters the last remnant of his strength to jerk the blade in the wound, before the Mother crushes him for sure.

Suddenly, there is Kiefer next to him, yelling "For the Wardens!" while plunging his own blade into the Mother. Her body shakes so violently that both are tossed aside; seeing the tentacles bearing down, Nathaniel only manages to close his eyes. A terrible scream issues: the scream of man in mortal pain, ending abruptly, as sticky warm liquid pours on Nathaniel, followed by Kiefer's crushed and torn remains.

Half-paralyzed by pain, Nathaniel struggles to move away, to get hold of a weapon,  _something_ , while blinking violently to remove Kiefer's blood from his eyes.

And so he sees it, through a red haze: while Justice is methodically chopping off the tentacles with mighty swings of his broadsword and the Mother is screaming her hatred at him, a man jumps from a protrusion of the cavern wall, landing on the top of her belly and grabbing hold of one of her claws to secure himself just before his blade cuts into the Mother's neck.

The sudden absence of the screeching feels as if all sound was erased from existence.

To Nathaniel's horror, the whole mass starts to convulse violently after that, the claws and tentacles beating around. He instinctively covers his head, as if it could change a thing, and attempts to crawl away, painfully slowly.

The next thing he knows, Gareth is dragging him to safety, and Anders kneels down next to him to cast a healing spell with shaking hands. With the bleeding stopped and the worst pain receding, Nathaniel is feeling light-headed; his voice is hoarse as he asks for water.

No-one else speaks; the thuds of the slowly dying monstrosity the only sound, till heavy footsteps approach: Justice in his fullplate, almost untouched by the fight, except some of the plates caved in, which would have incapacitated a living man but are of no consequence to the dead flesh. In his arms, a man so covered in gore that the griffon on his armour is almost obliterated under its layers.

They can tell who he is only by the armour: his face is a bloody mess, the left cheek torn so deep that the white of bone and teeth protrudes.

"Oh,  _Maker_ ," Anders sighs uncharacteristically, while Gareth, who used to invoke the name at every opportunity, remains quiet. Yet, despite the seeming, there comes a moan as Justice lowers his burden, and the eyes open by a slit.

"I'm on it, right away," the mage mutters, pressing his temples, but as he reaches his hand, there comes a whining sound behind them; whining and whimpering.

Wolf, terribly mangled, is crawling closer to them from the place where he fell, his eyes intent only on his master, voicing his anxiety.

"…heal…him…" The voice is barely audible but the eyes in the bloodied face are now fully open.

Anders curses vulgarly. "I can't waste magic on dogs when there are people to heal!"

Nathaniel knows the answer even before it comes: "Heal… him… not… me."

The mage remains gaping for a moment.

"You heard," Nathaniel hears himself say, more harshly than necessary. "Heal the dog."

He receives a stare cold like a blade from Anders but he is past caring to explain, or to feel a thing, and Ned Cousland smiles at him with a bloody smile before he closes his eyes.


	36. All Alone In the Night

The setting sun slowly gains the colour of blood: a dramatic end of a beautiful day. The smell of burnt still pertains even despite the rain, yet spring freshness can already be felt in the air, as well.

_A fresh start, perhaps. A new hope._

Nathaniel has to rub his welling eyes with his knuckles. ' _Dearest Nathaniel…'_

His lips crinkle up, of their own volition. There has been enough doom and gloom recently, it is high time that the tide turned.

It gives him hope for the other thing, as well.

He hasn't seen or spoken to Ned ever since they parted on the Feravel plains - or rather, since his abrupt departure for Denerim as soon as he was able-bodied, which, due to both mages' overexertion, took several days. Nathaniel sighs involuntarily at the memory: it was a bleak and lonely time, with everyone confined to their tents by almost constant drizzle. He glimpsed Ned but once during the whole time: the deep clawmarks on his cheek an angry red, his deep-sunk eyes unfathomable. The hand resting on Wolf's scarred head as the mabari was pressing close to him never moved and Nathaniel just  _knew_  that they had been like that the whole time.

He runs a hand over his face. He doesn't know how Ned's dealings in Denerim went but with the king being so close to him, there is hardly any reason to worry. By now, Ned has already rested; the best time to set things right between themselves.

The air is chilling rapidly, and so Nathaniel leaves his vantage point at the watchtower and cautiously walks down the steep stairs: his barely healed body could certainly do without a fall.

When he approaches Ned's door, it's dark already and he hesitates a little, but seeing the light under it, he knocks.

No answer, and he is a little puzzled: could Ned have fallen asleep?

He knocks louder. "Ned? That's me, Nathaniel."

Still no answer, and the waiting is becoming awkward. Yet, he knows that Ned is in there, the servants were sure of that.

Making up his mind, he presses the doorknob. "Ned?"

A candle is burning in the stick by the door; the rest of the room is drowning in darkness. Wolf, lying by the cold fireplace, briefly raises his scarred head with maimed ears from his paws as he wags his tail in welcome but Ned is nowhere to be seen, until Nathaniel notices him, sitting in the tall armchair, turned towards the darkness behind the window, a glass in his hand. Pointedly, he keeps looking out of the window, as he says: "I didn't ask you in. What do you want here?"

Nathaniel almost flinches at the hostility, out of scale for his intrusion, but is firmly decided not to be deterred. " You weren't answering," he says in a way of apology. "I have to talk to you."

Ned still doesn't look at him, offering only the sight of his badly scarred cheek: the face of a stranger. "There's nothing to talk about. I did what I did. Leave."

Nathaniel slowly exhales and folds his arms on his chest _. You're not really making this easy, Cousland_.

That finally provokes a response. Ned abruptly drops his eyes to his glass, then downs the content with a single gulp. He rises from the chair and covers the distance to the window to lean on the windowsill. "I burnt a city with every single man, woman and child inside, including your pregnant sister. What could you possibly want to talk about, huh? You want to tell me that you understand? That you forgive me, no hard feelings at all? That you would have done the same?" The tone overflows with mockery, the words like a wall of daggers.

Nathaniel slowly inhales and exhales again. He knows the tone, he thinks he knows the reason, as well, yet he cannot help but feel irritated by the whole scene, by the display of stubbornness as if trying to goad him into something. "No. That's not why I've come."

Slowly, Ned raises his hands and leans into the window frame. "No? So why  _have_  you come, Nathaniel Howe?"

"Certainly not to plant a knife in your back, as you seem to imply," Nathaniel snaps; the oozing hostility is already affecting him, against his better judgement, and he silently curses himself.  _Let's stop beating around the bush._

"Gosh, what a relief," Ned mutters sarcastically.

The next moment, though, he staggers as if he were truly stabbed and nearly falls into the window, as Nathaniel says: "Delilah  _lives_."

 _She lives, Maker be blessed. She lives_. Nathaniel never tires of repeating the miracle to himself:  _my sister lives_.

Finally, Ned turns to him, the cold mask gone: his lips are trembling but he seems unable to find the words.

"A letter from her arrived after we departed for the Feravel plains," Nathaniel explains. It had been waiting on his bed; he nearly collapsed, seeing the familiar handwriting. "She was not in the city when the darkspawn struck. Her old housewife died in her sleep, and with her husband gone, Delilah thought it unwise to stay home alone in high pregnancy. She moved to the relatives of Adria's – those who have already taken her in once, after she left the Keep – who live on a farmstead two miles from the city. She had left a message with the neighbours, which, of course, I never found out about, and after the darkspawn attack, there was no-one to bring her letter to me in time."

Two glistening streaks slowly make their way to Ned's jaw; yet, he still looks as if he was expecting a blow, or not fully believing what he hears.

"Here." Nathaniel takes out Delilah's letter, folded and crumpled as he has been carrying it around in his sleeve, "take a look." His own eyes are moist again:  _Dearest Nathaniel…_

Ned's hand, shaking, reaches for the vellum, then stops short of touching it as something creeps back into his eyes. "How many such miracles have you to report?" he asks softly.

"Just this one," Nathaniel has to admit hoarsely.

The hand recedes, the eyes close and Ned leans his head against the wall. "So one Delliah lives. The others still burnt to ashes."

The despair makes Nathaniel's throat tighten. "You did what you had to," he tries to offer the only console he can.

A wrong answer, it turns out.

The dark eyes open, the daggers back again. "Says you because  _your_  sister lives."

Taken aback, Nathaniel does not respond, and the words come like a flood. "Yeah, sure, I did what had to be done and I acted in the best interest of the land, says his fucking royal majesty who had never had to make a single call, says Eamon because Maker preserve that the Hero of Ferelden's judgement could ever be questioned, 'cause his comfy Chancellor chair as well as the whole fucking throne is fucking built on it, and Maker preserve that  _anyone_  questions me at all because, you know, there's no telling what I might do to  _them_  if I could burn the whole fucking city! So no-one dares a say in my face, they just fucking  _look_  at the bloody mass murderer Hero of Ferelden!"

Nathaniel frowns, uncomprehending. "You  _are_  the one who stopped the Blight and –"

The laughter which Ned produces at that is worse than anything he has said previously. "I quelled one Blight, and made sure that two more will happen! Isn't that great? What a feat! No-one will ever beat me in that! What's Loghain with half his army slaughtered, I've trumped him before my victims were even born!"

 _Dear Maker, what has got into him?_ This is not the Cousland as Nathaniel knows him; he looks like one haunted by all the demons of the Fade and Nathaniel has no idea how to deal with that, yet he tries nonetheless. "But that was the right choice. The Architect lied…"

Again the laughter, now tinged towards sobbing. "And you can tell the future to be so fucking sure? Don't you realize that it all hung by a thread? It was such a fucking piece of luck that we stopped the Blight, who's to tell that luck won't run out the next time? Sure, the bastard was lying in something, but I didn't even –" His voice breaks, his hands fly to cover his face.

Seeing him so is heart-breaking. Nathaniel walks over to him and reaches to take Ned by the arm. "Ned…"

The arm jerks away violently. "Leave me,  _Howe_!"

It is like a slap in the face.

Nathaniel has no memory of leaving the room, only some time later he finds himself striding angrily through a corridor, aimlessly, and stops his roaming only on the battlement, in hope that in the fresh chilly air, he will not feel like suffocating.

Standing there till his fingers and toes turn numb with cold, his whirling emotions finally settle to a single thought, tightening his stomach.

_It was a mistake. I shouldn't have left._

But by now, Ned's window has gone dark, and whether he has fallen asleep, or sits sleepless in the night, consumed by doubts and self-loathing, Nathaniel doesn't dare another try.

Shivering and upset, he heads for his room, to the comfort of his cold bed, but that is not to happen.

Only as he places the torch in the holder by the door he notices her; before he can say a word, Velanna drops the blanket that she was wrapped in as she was sitting on his bed, and walks over to him. Her hair is undone, falling on her bare shoulders, the tight bodice more revealing than covering –

– and he  _knows_  that he should just sit down with her and talk and set things straight between them –

– and she stops short of touching him, waiting for his response, her hair sparkling gold in the torchlight, her lips parted, her eyes gleaming green –

– and he  _knows_  he absolutely shouldn't, even as he is leaning to her to claim those lips, to bury his hands in her hair, to feel her shiver under his touch while her own hands clasp on his neck, pulling him closer. He tastes her mouth, his tongue playing with hers, he tastes her skin, all the way down to her breasts, and Velanna screams softly as he sucks on the nipples. He is not sure when or how they shed clothes, all he knows is that her breasts are even more wonderful than he remembers, and she is wet for him and her legs are locking around his hips –

– Velanna, arching under him, gasping some incoherent words, and shuddering as her inner walls clench around him, and he rocks into her faster and faster, in his own release –

Sweating and panting, he rolls on his back, and only as his breath starts calming down does he realize that the  _rutting_  brought no more than momentary oblivion. After a moment, Velanna gets up and leaves without as much as a word; it barely makes a difference and he doesn't blame her, as it is not her who occupies his thoughts. He finds himself thinking of the other woman who shared his bed, remembering her with remorse and sorrow, and of the man whom, so long ago, he meant to kill. He came a full circle; yet, returning temporarily to the starting point, he found out that even in his bitterness, he couldn't truly hate Ned, despite anything. Tiredly, he ponders how many burdens a man can bear before he inevitably breaks; how long, if ever, it might take for him to recover.

Not the least of all, he ponders his own role in it.

_Every step is straining, each more than the previous, what with the insufficient healing that the exhausted mages were barely able to perform. Gritting his teeth, Nathaniel concentrates on Justice's feet before him, moving regularly despite the burden he is carrying. Anders, slightly better off than Velanna, walks ahead, what little magic he has left to make the difference should they be attacked. The elf, still dizzy after her collapse, clings to Nathaniel's side; he is unsure who supports whom but it does make the walking slightly better, with an arm around each other's waist. Gareth, the least wounded, quietly keeps the rearguard, and so the only sound except gasps and footsteps is Wolf's quiet whimpering as he limps heavily on Nathaniel's left, his eyes never leaving his master's motionless form in Justice's arms._

_Every time Nathaniel looks up, he can see the blood-soaked bandages, an eye tightly shut and lips constantly pressing in pain._

_"Good that you made Anders heal the dog," Velanna remarks as they pause briefly to rest and Wolf immediately curls by Ned's side. "I cannot see animals suffer."_

_In the silence of the underground, her voice carries clearly but no-one comments on it. Nathaniel, aching and exhausted past caring, lets the words slip, their true significance dawning on him only much, much later._


	37. Deconstruction of a Falling Star

"So you would be Nathaniel Howe."

The tone, slightly ironic, doesn't sit well with him but Nathaniel puts his hand over his heart and bows low: such is the way with the monarchs of the world.

His Majesty Alistair Theirin has a royal profile and grins too much for Nathaniel's liking, but if this is the face of the one true friend, then so be it. Judging by the haste with which he responded to the message by turning up in his own royal person, there might perhaps be more to him than meets the eye, or at least Nathaniel hopes so.

Or, at least, he hopes that he won't make the situation any worse than it already is.

The king nods to him, with yet another grating display of royal jocularity. "Now be so kind and show me the way, Master Howe. I'd probably end up in a cheese cellar if I tried on my own." Yet, the curt gesture with which he makes clear that no-one else is to follow defies the light tone, and as they stride in the corridor alone, he asks with only the barest trace of the previous humour, as if it was an inseparable trait of his personality, unsubdued no matter how grim the prospects: "Now, will you tell me how we got into this mess?"

Nathaniel hesitates: in his message to Denerim, he briefly stated what had happened, but when he starts elaborating, he is waved off: "Not that. The  _whole_  thing."

Nathaniel doesn't sigh, even though he much wants to, but he still receives a sharp glance. "Yes, he burnt Amaranthine, I am aware of that, and he didn't bear it lightly." The king's lips briefly press in a thin line. "I've also been hearing things ever since, but never from him, not once. Give me the full story, Master Howe, if you please."

Please or not, the wishes of kings are not to be ignored.

* * *

_Early spring has always been a difficult time. The sun is but a promise of warmth and growth and the food scarce; in the afflicted arling, doubly so. While the rest of Ferelden has had over half a year to somehow recover from the worst of the Blight, the wounds of Amaranthine are still raw, and the burnt smell of their cauterisation still hovers in the air and memory. Too many hands are missing to work the fields; with the destruction of the city and its port, trade is stifled. The commoners grumble more than their empty stomachs; the nobles are getting nervous and difficult to deal with; even with the darkspawn gone, the roads are far from safe and the Taint is still taking its toll, on people and land alike._

_Who would wonder at that time that the Commander is apparently overworked, that he speaks little and smiles even less, and that he exhibits fits of anger which he didn't use to? Nobody is particularly worried, not even Nathaniel, who certainly should know better, but as that disastrous evening resulted in nothing more but Ned turning up late the next day, with bloodshot eyes, and offering a quiet, civil apology, he lets himself be lulled, too absorbed in his joy over Delilah's survival._

_Curiously, it is Delilah herself who opens his eyes, as spring is setting in for good and her time comes. Nathaniel rushes to Adria's cousin's farm as soon as he receives the news, and his heart skips a beat at the sight of his sister abed with a tiny dark-haired bundle in her arms._

" _Oh, come on, he won't shatter," she chuckles at his reverent touch and places the baby in his arms, "just support his head."_

_The boy wiggles slightly against Nathaniel's leathers but doesn't wake. "What's his name?" he asks softly, watching the gentle curve of cheek and tiny lips._

_The answer renders him speechless: "Bryce."_

" _But – Delilah – is… is this… wise?" he stutters finally. "I'm not sure, the Couslands – the Commander –"_

_She watches him, slightly amused. "He knows," she assures him, "I wasn't certain myself, thinking about naming the baby in honour of the Couslands, so I sought the Commander's permission and he turned up in person soon enough. He was very kind to me and he even brought some gold." She slightly blushes. "I wouldn't have taken it, but for the child –"_

_The baby starts wiggling some more and so Delilah takes him back and cradles him against her breasts. "It's been barely a fortnight," she continues, "I am surprised that he never told you – I was actually surprised that you didn't come along but I didn't want to be inquisitive. Did anything happen, Nathaniel?"_

Fool, fool, fool.

_Nathaniel recalls all too well Ned's absence about a fortnight ago: recalls that Ned wasn't seen almost till noon the next day, and recalls, with sudden unease, that this has been a pattern in the last weeks._

Oh, dear Maker.

_Delilah watches him with concern. "I do not know him so well but he seemed… worn. Strained. What has happened, brother?"_

Amaranthine _. Looking at his sister, twice considered lost, twice miraculously found again, his throat tightens so much that he cannot speak._

_She understands: freeing one hand, she reaches it to Nathaniel and they embrace, tight but for the baby between them. "Delilah," Nathaniel says hoarsely, feeling tears burning under his lids, "little sister…"_

" _Hush," she says, "hush, I'm alive. I'm here."_

_They remain so until Bryce wiggles again and starts wailing, and Nathaniel gets up and turns away as Delilah puts the baby to her breast._

" _Ned is a good man," she says softly, watching her son struggle with the nipple, "but people are saying –"_

" _I know what they are saying." Indeed he does: the ashes and cinders of Amaranthine had barely gone cold when the tongues started their work. He could feel it himself, from the eyes of those who saw his Warden badge on his way from the Keep._

_His sister raises her head, her tone resolute. "Then tell him... tell him that he is always welcome in this house, and always will, and he will be welcome in the house which we will build for the money he gave me, as well."_

" _I will," he promises, and makes good on his promise as soon as he comes back to the Keep. Only then does he realise the full extent of what he has been ignoring since the return from the Feravel plains. It dwells in Ned's words, calm and civil, in his expression, revealing nothing that is going on underneath, in his eyes which remain the same no matter what Nathaniel says – an impenetrable shell of a man, as if what had been inside burnt with Amaranthine._

_It is no surprise to Nathaniel that Ned's door remains closed long the next morning._

* * *

"Dammit," His Royal Majesty mutters and repeats, for a good measure, "dammit. Damn them stubborn Couslands!" He rakes his fingers through his hair, leaving it unroyally tousled. "He pulled quite an act at the wedding…"

 _I can imagine._  For a perfunctory observer, nothing much changed, only instead of the easy charm, the Commander started to rely on the respect earned by his prowess and supposed ruthlessness, and on occasions, he was even able to conjure his old self when needed. When late Kristoff's wife caused no little commotion by her unexpected arrival once the mountain passes allowed for travel, the change was almost painful to watch, leaving Nathaniel with an acute sense of loss. He tried to talk to Ned about it, the next day after his door opened only late into the morning, to no avail: the fleeting image of the man who he had been was gone for good, and nothing Nathaniel said could make it through the wall of silence that Ned had hidden behind.

Each and every time Ned put up an act of himself, his door remained closed the next morning.

Each and every time, Nathaniel rued the loss of Varel even more: if there ever had been a person who might have broken the shell, it would have been him... and it pains Nathaniel to think that there was a time when he might have considered himself another such person. With little hope, he addressed Maverlies, once, only to learn that her fling with the Commander had ended even before the attack of Amaranthine; no help could be expected from that direction.

Yet, it was only after the royal wedding in May that a new aspect emerged.

* * *

_"Are you out of your mind?"_

_Nathaniel stares intently into his cup as Anders summarizes his feelings but even so, he can see with a corner of his eye that the muscles on Ned's jaw twitch. "I do not recall requiring your opinion concerning my sanity," comes the answer in a soft, cold tone, yet brimming with unspoken anger: the new Ned doesn't tolerate opposition or slighting his authority. "And if you have become soft and scared, just say so." He rises from his chair and pins his finger into the map. "There is a fortune in lyrium in Kal'Hirol and I want it utilized, and since we're practically sitting over an access route, I want it explored. Which part of it is not clear, Anders?"_

_The blonde mage squirms under the relentless gaze but is not fully cowed. "Perhaps better to do the transport on the surface, rather than the Deep Roads?"_

_Ned's eyes flare, his anger almost palpable. "We will explore Kal'Hirol and its access routes," he repeats. "We have new recruits who need practice." Briefly, he looks at the said recruits: both Danella and Everett, the mageling apprentice who proved himself at the Stark farm and during the siege of the Keep, reciprocate unflinchingly, their eyes radiating the same awed respect that Ned seems to possess with the vast majority of those who withstood the darkspawn attack._

_Nathaniel sighs inwardly:_ no help out of there _. No help in pointing out that every single person who has survived the fight for the Keep has had practice aplenty, either, or that the two new recruits are two out of four who underwent the Joining and might use some time before they see serious action again. With a pang of futility, he remembers Gareth, who survived the hell of the Mother's lair and whose inner conviction drove him to serve the Warden's cause even more devotedly, only to perish unnecessarily in the Joining. Not the first time, Nathaniel is glad that at least Alec's volunteering was turned down. 'You have a family', Ned had said then, his tone discouraging any discussion just like he does now._

_Yet even so, Nathaniel has to try. "The risk is unnecessary, we could -"_

_"That is no concern of yours. You are staying to run the Keep in my absence."_

_Nathaniel grits his teeth at the rebuke and glances in the direction of the single person who might still support him, but as always, Velanna doesn't fail to disappoint. For all her bitterness towards the Commander, blaming him for the final loss of Seranni and clashing with him at every opportunity, the prospect of entering the Deep Roads apparently fills her with unrealistic expectations._ Again _._

_He tries to dissuade her later, twice - prior they engage in bed, and afterwards, with as little success as he had with deterring Ned. The only result is that Velanna storms out huffed, and only half-dressed, leaving him to ponder the insurmountable distance between them, with shoulders scratched raw by her fingernails._

_Time and again, Nathaniel rues starting the tryst: except the relief in bed, neither seems able to provide what the other needs, and the emptiness he feels every time is gnawing at him._

* * *

Anders is fast asleep on the makeshift bed in the corner and Cera welcomes them with an elegant bow. To Nathaniel's surprise, Wolf raises on the bed for a moment to welcome the king by pressing his snout into the royal palm, and the king seems moved. Yet, watching Ned, his face shows nothing, and Nathaniel can only guess what he must be feeling, seeing the deep-sunk eyes and the gaunt cheeks, even paler for the dark stubble.

At an unspoken behest, he continues, as soon as the door closes behind Cera. "They went into the Deep Roads several times. Even though the main access route to Kal'Hirol is just under the Keep, it doesn't run straight. Parts of it have collapsed, there are also side tunnels and some darkspawn burrowing... Finding the way was not easy even with Oghren. Every time, they ran into darkspawn, and some fights must have been tough. Anders... he and Ned had a mighty argument as Anders insisted that it was stupid risk, and Ned... the Commander ordered him to stay at the Keep."

"He went into the Deep Roads without a mage?!"

"No, Your Majesty. He took Everett… and Velanna."

* * *

_Despite the amount of alcohol, Oghren seems uncharacteristically sober, or perhaps he has drunk himself into soberness. He keeps licking his lips too often, as if words were leaving a foul taste in his mouth. "We knew that we had them 'spawn coming, from more than one direction, and that there was an awful lot of them nugshitters. So, we went in formation and we knew that we would kick their arses. The dance started all fine, and then..." He licks his lips again and then spits on the floor, raising his eyes to Nathaniel. "I know you were fond of her but the bitch went batshit crazy. Ye might not have noticed when you two were fucking, but she had lost it."_

_Nathaniel gulps hard, knowing all too well what Oghren means: he couldn't have missed how Velanna's quirkiness gradually turned into an obsession about her sister, and he couldn't deny that bedding Velanna was the single thing that kept drawing him to her of late. "Just spit it out. What did she do?" he asks tiredly, predicting the answer all too well._

* * *

"...but in the middle of the fight, Velanna suddenly yelled, 'Seranni!' and turned on her heel and ran for some side passage, and no-one saw her since. Without her support, the fight was tough... There were several alphas, with warhammers - that kind with a sharp point at one end." Nathaniel briefly closes his eyes. He will never forget the sight of the exhausted, bloodied group which basically collapsed as soon as they reached the gate under the Keep. He and Anders, hastily summoned, were appalled at the sight; the ' _I told you_ so' freezing on their lips. "It was a miracle that everyone made it out alive."

Standing with his back to him, the king is looking at the griffon armour on its stack: someone - Nathaniel suspects that it was Garavel - had the  _bright_  idea to have it cleaned and put in its place. Slowly, the king places his hand over the puncture in the plating. "How did he survive this?" he asks softly.

"They were well equipped with potions, and the kid, Everett, utterly spent himself to keep him alive till they made it back. Anders," Nathaniel indicates the mage, sleeping so fast that their conversation doesn't disturb him in the least, "has worked himself to exhaustion to repair the damage to his inner organs."

The king glances at the blonde head. "I remember him," he mutters, "curious how -" he looks back at Ned, lying motionless, his chest barely rising, his midriff dressed in bandages. Wolf, curled on the bed by his side, softly whines. "Has he come to?"

"No. Anders and Cera are intentionally keeping him asleep... he still hangs by a thread."

A slow nod, and then, His Majesty Alistair Theirin cautiously sits on the bed, taking Ned's limp hand in his. "Have you... notified Highever?" he asks softly.

Nathaniel feels a lump in his throat. "I have. - Not in my own name, I asked Garavel," he hastily assures. He takes a breath. "But perhaps it would be better if Your Majesty -"

He receives a shade of a smile. "I already have - but I can't say if it will be any good. Them Couslands are a terribly stubborn lot."

The Cousland stubbornness is well known to Nathaniel and he is sure that being too stubborn to die played no small role when Anders finally announced that Ned would "definitely live until he gets himself killed". He only wishes that its manifestations were always so commendable, and not a reason to grit his teeth and curse when not a single word arrives from Highever.

* * *

"He wants you."The inseparable grin, not quite reaching the red-rimmed eyes, "and I want my royal breakfast, so I'll leave you to your own devices." As the king steps aside to let Nathaniel pass, he adds softly: "Be easy on him."

The room seems darker for the king's absence and in the shadows of the curtains, drawn so that Ned could rest undisturbed by daylight, his face looks like a skull; the cheekbones sharply protruding, the scar the only touch of colour.

Nathaniel pauses uncertainly until Wolf slides off the bed and pads to welcome him - the surest sign of recovery, as the dog never left Ned's side while he was on the verge of death. Yet, the deep-sunk eyes might still belong to one dead, and there is but a small sparkle of life in them as they open. "Nathaniel..." A mere whisper of a voice, and a strain of one trying to overthrow a mountain. "I... am glad to see you."

Nathaniel walks over and sits on the bed. "Good to see you, too. You had me worried - you had us all worried."

Ned is breathing fast. "I... know. I... Nathaniel... I..."

Seeing him struggle so, Nathaniel feels something break within. He leans closer. "Hush. Don't disquiet yourself. There's no need to."

"No... I... have to..."

 _Stubborn, stubborn Cousland_.

Nathaniel can see the sheen of perspiration and the lips trembling in an effort to produce the words long overdue. He growls in frustration and shakes his head furiously. "No, you _don't_. What you have to do is get well again and stop trying to get yourself killed, and that's all I need to hear from you. Ever."

Ned's eyes are open wide, clinging to him, and Nathaniel suddenly feels as if there was a dark abyss opening, waiting for the slightest misstep. On an impulse, he kneels beside the bed and takes Ned by the hand. "I don't need to hear it, Ned. I'm here - I'm here for you and always will, regardless of what you might say, now or later. You can let go. You have to."

The hand trembles in his, and he covers it with his other hand. The fingers clutch him with a deathgrip.

"It's alright," Nathaniel mutters hoarsely, "it's alright. I'm here." His throat tightens: he wants to say more but cannot even if he knew what to say.

A welcome distraction comes in the form of Wolf, who starts whimpering while staring into Ned's face. "See?" Nathaniel says. "He agrees with me. You should stop disquieting yourself. "

Finally, the hand releases the grip, and after a moment, Ned says softly, with much less effort: "I... never thanked you for saving him."

"No need to. I know what the ugly mutt means to you."

Wolf's offended whine evokes a tiny shade of a smile. "I... have to thank you for bringing Alistair, as well."

Nathaniel clears his throat, unsure how to respond: somehow, he doesn't think it below His Royal Majesty to eavesdrop. The smile becomes more pronounced:  _knowing each other's thought... like we used to._

For a while, they sit in silence, hand in hand.

"Will you... tell me... some news about the Keep?"

That can easily be granted, though Nathaniel tries to keep it brief, so as not to strain Ned unnecessarily. As he is done with the account and is about to leave, though, Ned stops him with another request: "Nathaniel...

"Yes?" he asks, not showing that the return of underlying tension unnerves him.

"Fergus... is not coming, is he?"

Nathaniel hesitates but doesn't want to give false hope. "I do not know. We sent word but there has been no reply... I'm sorry, Ned."

The dark eyes close for a moment. "Thanks... for telling me," he mutters. "I... I think I will need to rest now. Do... do come back after I wake up... please."

"Of course. No need to plead."

The last thing he sees as he carefully closes the door is an arm holding tight the mabari's thick neck, both covered in scars.


	38. Atonement

The inner courtyard resonates with Oghren's booming laughter; the child's voice, shrill with excitement, provides a high-pitched counterpoint. Oghren's wife, watching them with her hands planted in her sides, further contributes to the cacophony with her own prominent voice .

Nathaniel smirks for himself. Felsi's first arrival with a baby on her hip "to beat some sense into that nughumper of a husband" was a source of profound entertainment for the whole Keep, and even though Oghren eventually did find some common sense in his cups to take up his fatherly role, the following visits have been no less amusing. The majority of the Keep's denizens enjoy a close view; Nathaniel prefers a safer - and quieter - distance.

Lazying against sun-warmed stones high above the courtyard, he realizes that he is not the only quiet observer.

Half-hidden in the shadow of the watchtower, Ned almost insensibly nods at him. Nathaniel nods back but then reconsiders and slowly makes his way along the battlement. He receives a small smile in a way of welcome, and as always, feels a little pang inside before he reminds himself once more:  _a man must walk first before he can run again._  It is not a smile as he would have received a year ago – well, not  _he_ , as a year ago, they weren't exactly on speaking terms – but a smile it is still, and an ease that wasn't there in those dark months after Amaranthine.

And so Nathaniel responds with his own small smile and joins Ned to watch the show below until Felsi deems it enough and hushes her husband and offspring into the warmth of the Keep's halls.

Nathaniel is beginning to feel the chill himself; his previous watching spot made a better use of the autumn sun. "Some spiced wine wouldn't hurt," he assesses.

He receives a small smile and another nod; a witty remark that would have followed a year ago is never voiced, even though Nathaniel can see the creases in the corners of Ned's eyes.

_Next time, perhaps._

Together, they enter the dining room, currently in a state of commotion over Oghren junior dividing his attention between getting smeared with plum sauce and tugging at Oghren's plaited beard.

Ned and Nathaniel exchange but a glance before they help themselves to a flagon of hot wine with cinnamon and clover as well as a handsome supply of fresh bread and cheese, to quickly retreat into the quiet of Ned's chamber: there is only so much dwarf entertainment that one can take in a single day.

"I'd never have thought that Oghren might be, you know, so  _fatherly_ ," Ned remarks after a while of comfortable silence.

Nathaniel grins in an answer but then recalls the one time that Oghren accompanied him to see Delilah. "You should have seen him melting when my sister was with a child. Otherwise, I'd never have thought that he had it in him, either."

Immediately, he can sense a change in the mood but Ned doesn't speak his thought and Nathaniel braces himself for waiting, again. He mentally pats his shoulder for being a patient, patient man.

It takes the rest of the afternoon, and most of the evening, as well, until Ned joins him for a session with throwing knives. After a tenth thorough miss, each accompanied by Nathaniel's pointed look, Ned finally gives in and asks the anticipated question: "By the way… are you planning to see Delilah any time soon?"

"I guess I should, while the weather holds," Nathaniel replies, and knows the response even before it is voiced.

"Would you… mind if I come along?"

 _High time you did._ "Of course not. Delilah will be glad that you have finally accepted her invitation." Despite his innocent tone, he receives a mild glare, to which he responds with a gesture indicating the knives again. "Back to your practice, Cousland… you really ought to learn to focus some day."

"I guess I should holy smite you  _some_ day," Ned grits through his teeth as he goes to fetch the knives.

"The fine art of strength and balance requires way more concentration than a lame attempt to pass dozing off as Templar meditation."

" _Some_  day, I'll have to remind you of some  _very_  poor concentration on your part."

With a flick of the wrist, Nathaniel sends his knife into the bull's eye. "When you do ten out of ten, you're welcome."

* * *

Two days later, they set out, accompanied by four soldiers and Everett the grass is lined with hoarfrost in the early morning but the day is still warm and they make to the crossroads two miles from Amaranthine in good time.  _Prior_ , they would have been able to see the city towers and smoke from cooking fires rising to the clear sky; now they hastily turn away from the ruins and take the road to Elric's farmstead.

Adria's cousin built his home in a low vale among pastures and fields, and Delilah's new house, adjacent to the main building, looks into a large apple orchard, shedding leaves in red and gold.

 _A good place to live and bring up a child_ , Nathaniel thinks, seeing his sister's smile full of genuine joy as all of Elric's household gather to welcome in the yard; judging by some sidelong glances, though, not everyone is thrilled by seeing the fearsome and  _feared_  Commander of the Grey.

_The Commander of the Grey, the Arsonist of Amaranthine._

To Nathaniel's relief, Ned produces some of the old charm; whatever rumours may have reached the place, any doubts are dispelled for now. Elric bids them a hearty welcome and Delilah blushes as Ned bows low and kisses her hand. Her husband is nowhere to be seen, apparently making use of the favourable weather to pursue the trade.

The dinner that follows is disrupted only by Bryce's occasional angry wail as he is teething, and Nathaniel is sure that no-one but himself has noticed the distant look in Ned's eyes, crawling in each and every time in those rare moments when he is not in the centre of attention.

* * *

"No…. No!"

Hazed from sleep, it takes Nathaniel some time to become fully aware of his whereabouts in the tiny bedroom upstairs. As further anguished sounds issue, mingling with Wolf's whining, he rises from bed. "Ned? Ned!" he calls but to no avail, and so he gropes to light the lamp. Ned still keeps tossing in the clutches of nightmare, though, and so Nathaniel gently shakes his shoulder, cold with sweat and clammy under his fingers.

In response, comes a hushed scream and a muffled plea as Ned springs up and raises his arms in self-defence.

"Ned. That's me. It was just a dream."

Gasping, Ned finally lets his arms fall. "Nat-Nathaniel?" His voice is shaky and hoarse and he is beginning to shudder.

"Yes. You had a bad dream and couldn't be woken."

With a trembling sigh, Ned buries his face in his hands. "I need air," he states after a moment, and leaves wearing only breeches and boots, shrugging into the shirt on his way out while Wolf follows on his heels.

Nathaniel sighs, and again and again. He gets dressed, slowly and methodically, in wool and furs, and grabs hold of Ned's cloak, as well.

As he starts down the staircase, the opposite door opens: a little flame protected by her hand frames Delilah's black hair and white nightgown. "Nathaniel? Is anything wrong?" she whispers.

"Just bad dreams," he replies softly. "Go back to your bed, little sister. We might take a while."

The night is bright and icy and Ned is not far; only a few steps behind the house, staring into the orchard.

"Does it help, shuddering in the dark?" Nathaniel asks pointedly, wrapping the cloak round Ned's shoulders.

A quick glance at Nathaniel's thorough clothing. "You wouldn't know." The quip is somewhat spoilt by Ned's chattering teeth, though, and he pulls the cloak closer all too eagerly. He raises his face to the moonlight. "But it does help. And it's not really dark. That helps, as well."

Yet, he doesn't say what it helps with and Nathaniel doesn't ask, even though his tongue itches.

After a moment, Ned glances at him again and sighs, looking up, down, up. "Just the good old Fort Drakon. With some extra fiery bits for Amaranthine. Nothing special. Sorry to have dragged you out. I hope I haven't woken the whole household."

Nathaniel glowers at him, undeterred by the light tone. The glowering brings him the bitter satisfaction of seeing Ned drop his head for good.

"It was the worst nightmare I've had since-" A deep inhalation. "I don't think I will be able to fall asleep again – or to return into the room. Thanks for the cloak but there's no point in you staying up because of that."

"Don't be stupid, Cousland."  _I've left you alone once and I do not intend to repeat the mistake._

"You're annoyingly persistent, Howe."

" _Someone_  has to be reasonable here."

Ned snorts at that but after a moment of sulking, acknowledges defeat. As they return inside, they run into Delilah, carrying a tray laden with food

"I hear that the Warden hunger can keep you up at night," she forces them the tray and waves off Ned's apology before she retires to her bedroom.

Warm and stuffed to bursting, Nathaniel finds it impossible to resist sleep any longer. When his jaw nearly falls off in another yawn, Ned finally loses it. "Maker's balls, Nathaniel! Go back to bed, or you're going to fall off your horse in the morning! I promise I'll try to sleep!"

Wolf huffs approvingly at that and Ned rolls his eyes. "You two have conspired against me."

"At least you're finally grasping the reality." Nathaniel chuckles at the exasperated sigh but sleep carries him away before he can make sure that the surrender wasn't feigned.

* * *

Come the morning, Ned is somewhat pale and reticent but there is an air of calmness about him and true warmth in his smile as he bids farewell to Delilah and Bryce. Yet, leaving the farm, Nathaniel can see the stiffness of his shoulders, and anticipates the next move long before they reach the main road and make for the ruins of Amaranthine.

Following close by, Nathaniel feels his stomach tighten. Amaranthine used to be a jewel of the Fereldan coast; he cannot imagine what they might find within the blackened shell of its walls. Even now, more than half a year later, the faint smell of burnt still hovers in the air and the vegetation hasn't fully covered the large areas cleansed with fire.

The gate stands open, its charred remnants tossed aside. At Ned's gesture, their entourage stays behind. Nathaniel follows, unbidden, ducking subconsciously as he passes under the pikes above the gate. He never saw Esmerelle's head there but seeing these survivors of the destruction seems ominous to him.

The barracks of the city guard behind the gate lie in rubble; the part next to the city wall which sustained the least damage have been roofed again and repaired provisionally. The road is barred, and guarded against scavengers, but a single look at Ned's griffon armour, and the guards let them pass.

The hooves of their horses sound unnaturally loud as they pick their way across the rubble. Only a part of the main road behind the gate has been cleared; most of the streets were erased by the collapsed buildings.

Slower and slower, Ned leads the way, looking around; Wolf tails him, a quiet chestnut shadow, softly whimpering. Nathaniel stalks behind, wary of every movement in the ruins, of the hostile eyes of those few who survived and were too stubborn to make a living elsewhere. No-one attacks or addresses them, but he can feel the skin between his shoulder blades prickle and he has to suppress an urge to touch the spot where he was stabbed.

When they reach what used to be the main square, Ned brings his mount to a halt. Slowly, he turns around, overlooking the desolation. The charred remains of the Chantry loom above them from their elevated place; the Templar barracks behind have burnt to the ground. The townhall and guildhalls with their finely chiselled fronts lie in blackened rubble; the once busy square full of life bustling among the stalls is littered with debris.

Nathaniel wonders how many bodies might still be there, buried underneath.

Ned's horse, nudged, moves forward, towards the risky climb on the Chantry hillock. Led by a steady hand, though, it picks its way among the broken masonry.

Cursing under his breath, Nathaniel follows, and joins Ned at the viewpoint towards the harbour. The destruction is thorough there: the maze of wooden shacks and warehouses turned to ashes. Massive blackened beams mark the dock where a ship was moored; the piers, once thickly set with all kinds of vessels run empty into the sea like greedy fingers.

No ships cross the Narrow Sea to Amaranthine any more - Denerim and Highever prosper for that but the arling suffers.

The sight and the silence press on heavily, and under their weight, Ned's shoulders slump and head hangs low. Nathaniel feels a lump in his throat, the memories mingling with the images of the city perishing in fire.

"She must be rebuilt."

Nathaniel startles at the tense voice suddenly sounding by his side and meets Ned's eyes, tormented but unflinching in a finally found resolve. "Indeed," he agrees. "It will be no small task, though. No small coin, either."

"True enough." Slowly, Ned gazes around once more, absorbing the whole sight. "But it can be done. It must be. And I must make it happen... even if I cannot undo what I have done."

There is but one answer to this. "I am yours to command. When do we start?"

Ned looks at him, and Nathaniel can see the inner fire rekindling and giving birth to a streak of unfeigned and unrestrained joy. "We just have. Now we have to go back to the Keep to tell Woolsey how much I intend to leech from the Warden chest!"

Turning their horses, they make down the hillock, and only the rubble prevents Nathaniel from spurring his horse to into gallop, as if on wings.


	39. Phoenix Rising

Thrumming, the blade buries into the bull's eye.

 _Eight_.

Balancing on the balls of his feet, Ned is standing relaxed but focused, his arm performing a smooth movement crowned with a flick of his wrist, sending another dagger right into the centre of a much-abused target.

 _Nine_.

Nathaniel might toss in a remark to break his concentration but he doesn't; he can almost feel the weight of the tenth dagger in his own hand that instant before it is thrown in a low arc, driven home.

"Ten." Ned smiles, briefly, and stretches; the sleeveless tunic, sweated in the previous sparring, clings to his back. Nathaniel has long removed his shirt but Ned hates to expose his scars as long as it can be avoided and always wears an undertunic for the training, despite the summer's heat of the training grounds.

"Seems that chance is having a bad day today, settling on you," Nathaniel remarks.

He receives a glare. "You  _will_  get smitten one of these days, Howe."

"You wouldn't dare to. You'll need all your strength to survive Woolsey."

Ned moans exaggeratedly. "You  _had to_  remind me, right?"

Passing by to fetch the knives, he tries a nasty trick to hook Nathaniel's ankle and send him flying to the floor, but Nathaniel knows his Cousland and dances away, wiggling his fingers at him mockingly. "You're getting sloppy, Cousland."

"I was merely testing your reflexes. They seemed somewhat lacking today."

Now it's Nathaniel's time to grunt at the hint of his ignominious defeat at sparring. "You  _had to_  remind me, right?"

"Of course." The devilish grin turns the scarred face into a bizarre mask; most people are highly uncomfortable with that. It is a tactic that Ned loves to use with Mistress Woolsey every time she finds the expenses for rebuilding Amaranthine excessive.

Today is not an exception: refreshed by a bath, they spar the Mistress of the Keep's finances with every weapon they can get. A tough opponent, she is, and when they are done for the day and Ned offers some cool wine in his rooms, Nathaniel accepts more than gladly.

The evening doesn't go on as smoothly as he expected, though.

"I wonder… would you be willing to contend that she-dragon on your own for a while?" Ned asks casually while they are still smirking over Nathaniel's last remark.

"What, has she worn you down so much that you need a break?" Nathaniel laughs before he catches some weird undertone in Ned's question. Like a dog catching a scent on the wind, he snap to attention.

"I think I will need to see to some unfinished business," comes the reply, calm and smooth, yet Nathaniel can sense the sudden tension behind the perfectly controlled face. "I am not sure when yet… but I do not want to leave at a short notice and dump everything on you."

"Me?"

"Well, you  _are_  my second, you know."

Nathaniel clears his throat.

Pressing his lips briefly, Ned looks aside. "I'll talk to Fergus before I go," he says sharply. "Maker knows that this has been going on long enough."

 _Too long_ , Nathaniel thinks of all those missives returned unopened, and more acutely than ever, becomes aware of the lines in Ned's face that didn't use to be there. The dark months after the burning of Amaranthine robbed the Commander's face of the boyish charm and the injury from the Deep Roads added gauntness that never really filled in; with the closely cropped hair that Ned wears now, the angles of cheekbones and jaw stand out sharp.

Gaunt or full, the face is a mask, and for all they have been through, not an easy one to glimpse under.

But that's the way things are, with Cousland.

"Where are you planning to go?" Nathaniel asks to hide his musings.

"I'm not sure myself. I need to find a track that has gone cold meanwhile."

"For how long?"

Ned shies from his eyes briefly. "That… will depend largely on what I will learn." This time, there can be no mistake: his voice hasn't sounded so tense since the last autumn.

Nathaniel slowly exhales. There was a time when he would have held back; there was a time when he would have received no answer. It is neither now. "What is going on, Ned?" he asks softly.

He sees Ned's hands shiver. Slowly, his friend drops his eyes and touches that small ring of rosewood which he never takes off, before eventually replying: "I need to find her."

The relief that Nathaniel feels is tangible. "I see. Of course –"

"No, you don't!"

Taken aback be the outburst, Nathaniel feels his jaw drop.

Springing from his chair, Ned makes a few steps away. With his back to Nathaniel, he rakes his hands through his hair in frustration: a gesture from the time when it was longer. "You don't understand," he repeats, with a clear tone of despair. Walking away even further, into a dark corner of the room, he remains standing there, facing a wall.

As the silence lingers, Nathaniel can feel his stomach tie in a knot. He has no idea what it is that he has stumbled over; it only makes him think, uncomfortably, about that other evening in darkness and despair.

 _Dammit, Cousland. Speak to me_ …

… _or not._

Nathaniel empties his cup, pours himself another and sits back comfortably, firmly putting his unease aside. His estimate is not wrong.

Eventually, Ned turns back but his eyes keep avoiding Nathaniel's, and though his features are obscured in the dark, Nathaniel would still swear that he is flustered. "I…" When he raises his hand to his face, it shakes profoundly.

"I wish we were competing now, I'd sure win," Nathaniel ventures at a chance to dissipate the tension. "Won't you sit down at least?"

With an impatient snort, Ned turns away again and starts pacing. "I've never told anyone," he says hoarsely, pausing in between two steps.

 _Surprise, surprise. But it seems that we're finally getting somewhere_. Over the time, Nathaniel has come to learn that the façade of silence is actually easy to break through; all it takes is the right approach, and the right person, or so he likes to think. He schools his features into attentive listening, knowing well that once Ned loses the fight with his nerves, he will start talking without being prompted.

It doesn't take much longer, though it worries him that Ned keeps averting his eyes.

Several deep breaths, as if Ned didn't know how to start. "You might recall that I said once that I should have died at Fort Drakon, right?" he says eventually. Not waiting for confirmation, he barks a laughter. "That was not self-deprecatory: I truly should have died there. I never told you, no-one did, because it's not common knowledge… Killing an Archdemon takes the life of the Grey Warden who strikes the blow. It should have taken mine. I still live because…"

A profound pause while Ned folds his arms across his chest, as if bracing himself. "Morrigan… came with a scheme how to prevent this. A – a kind of magic. Blood magic, I suppose. I – we – we prevented the Archdemon's soul from merging with mine. That's what happens, you know, and both souls are destroyed in the process. We… we directed the soul elsewhere."

"Elsewhere?" Nathaniel says softly, as neutrally as he can: he feels not only walking an edge of an abyss, but an edge of one filled with lava. He does not dare to think what and how was done.

Ne still won't look at him, his eyes transfixed in the dark. "It… it possibly still walks this world," he says in an unsteady whisper, as if forcing the voice out. "Free of the taint… so it… shouldn't…" He lowers his head as his voice trails off. "I must know what I have unleashed," he stutters finally. "I cannot – I shouldn't have – I must find her and learn if she told the truth!"

"That you do," Nathaniel says slowly. He feels chill running down his spine, despite the warm evening "But what will you do if you find her?"

Ned finally looks at him, and for a moment, Nathaniel feels as if almost a year was erased. "That will depend on what I learn," he repeats. "If she lied…" His voice breaks.

 _If she lied, it will break him,_ Nathaniel knows for sure. "Why don't you come back and sit?" he suggests. "What's done is done. No use standing over there in the dark."

Reluctantly, Ned returns to his chair; he has to secure himself against the table as he is sitting down. His hands tremble so much that he cannot take his cup.

"Ned…." Nathaniel hates to ask, but he is a  _Warden_ , it is his duty to find out what it is that has been kept from him. Yet, he hesitates, realizing that being a  _friend_  means more to him than being a Warden. "Ned, do I  _need_  to know how exactly you …?"

After a moment of silence, Ned ventually raises his eyes. "I hope not. I will deal with what I have done… and set it right if need be."

Slowly, Nathaniel reaches his hand to him across the table. "Then just tell me what you need me to do meanwhile… you impossible Cousland."

Seeing the look of cautious relief, he nearly grits his teeth in frustration.  _Really, Ned, how many times do we have to go through this?_

But then Ned's cold hand meets his, and all of a sudden, Nathaniel realizes, acutely, that there will be a time when he might miss this all. He grips Ned's hand harder than he intended, and doesn't let go through all that Ned can bear to tell.

* * *

In the dim light, Nathaniel can see his breath slightly steaming: the year is setting towards autumn and the mornings are cold already.

This time two years ago, he was a bitter outcast with nothing but revenge in his heart; he crawled in under the cover of darkness and ended up in chains, waiting in his cell for a grim fate.

Now, mere minutes separate him from becoming the Lord of the Vigil's Keep in all but name.

Two years ago, the prospect would have made him dizzy like strong wine.

The sound of hooves as a horse is led out of the stables; on soft paws, huffing, Wolf struts over to pry his cold snout into Nathaniel's hand. Nathaniel kneels down to scratch the scarred head and shies away from a friendly lick.

"So you have crawled from your warm bed to see me off?"

In a plain armour without ornaments or sigil, Ned looks unfamiliar: as a stranger on the roads, he could be anyone. The armour is still dragonbone, and of Wade's superb make, but that would be recognized only at a closer look. The hilt of Vendetta, wrapped in plain leather, gives nothing away, either.

The Warden-Commander Ned Cousland who said his goodbyes the previous evening has ceased to exist.

The man with gaunt scarred face approaches in a light and lively gait which Nathaniel hasn't seen in almost two years:  _one who has shed a burden_.

"I wouldn't miss it for anything," he replies in earnest, rising to grasp Ned's outstretched hand.

The grasp turns into an embrace, short but tight. "I'll miss you, friend," Ned mutters, still holding Nathaniel's hand.

Nathaniel feels his throat tighten. "You're not coming back, are you?" he finally voices what has been on his mind ever since that evening.

Ned averts his eyes only briefly. "Most probably not," he admits. "I'm sorry, Nathaniel."

"Don't be. I understand. You've done enough."  _Suffered enough, sacrificed enough_.

A look of surprise and relief flashes across Ned's face. "Thank you."

"No need to. I–" somewhat awkwardly, he reaches for the packet under his coat. "Here. Take these. They're made for your hand. No fancy decorations but they are superbly balanced. I've tested them myself."

Slowly, Ned reaches for the pair of throwing daggers: plain, unadorned steel in plain sheaths, to be fastened to the forearm or bandolier. Looking at Nathaniel, his face beams a smile that Nathaniel hasn't seen in almost two years… or perhaps never. "Thank you. I'll bear them gladly."

Together, they walk to the gate. Ned mounts; against the sky, Nathaniel can see him raise his hand in a final goodbye. He raises his, and watches the man and the dog as long as he can make out their silhouettes in the light of the dawn.

**Author's Note:**

> The chapter titles are borrowed from the ingenious Babylon 5 series.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Сын своего отца (His Father's Son)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4033672) by [Lalli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lalli/pseuds/Lalli)




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